


THAT LOOKS ON TEMPESTS

by spicyshimmy



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Bonding, Chess, Gladiators, M/M, Mirror Universe, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-15 04:25:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 27
Words: 117,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1291273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicyshimmy/pseuds/spicyshimmy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prince James Tiberius Kirk scales the walls of Prince Spock's palace with a few propositions and two phasers. Prince Spock has to admit--he finds the young Terran prince fascinating. <i>Spock recognized him the moment he grinned. His name was James Tiberius Kirk, seventeen and a half years of age, and sources regarding his reputation were conflicted. He was a prince, no less. And he stood in the arched frame of the open window between Spock and the view that to him had always provided superior aesthetic gratification, the parched mountains and the darkness worn like a cloak across his broad shoulders.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Over on tumblr, pixiepunch drew some mirrorverse princes. So this happened. An alternate universe to _The Marriage of True Minds_ with more chest hair and a lot more political intrigue. A ZILLION thanks to mimblebee on tumblr for beta-ing!

The delegation from Earth had included seven assassins.

Only one, a human male, was still alive.

‘Hey,’ he said, a phaser in each hand.

Spock recognized him the moment he grinned. His name was James Tiberius Kirk, seventeen and a half years of age, and sources regarding his reputation were conflicted. He was a prince, no less. And he stood in the arched frame of the open window between Spock and the view that to him had always provided superior aesthetic gratification, the parched mountains and the darkness worn like a cloak across his broad shoulders. The curtains draped heavy and still, no wind to stir them.

‘If you intend to fire on me now, then you are wasting precious time,’ Spock replied.

‘Steep climb,’ James Tiberius said. ‘Almost got eaten by a sehlat on the way. Speaking of which, are they for sale?’

‘They belong to the private guard of the royal house of Vulcan.’ Spock maintained awareness of James Tiberius’ every movement, but he gave no sign of firing either weapon. ‘The only means of acquiring one for yourself—’

‘—would be to conquer Vulcan and take what I wanted as tribute.’ James Tiberius sighed. ‘But that’s awkward, because we’ve come on a mission of peace.’

‘A mission of peace with phasers.’

James Tiberius shrugged, tossing the phaser in his right hand so that it twirled in the air. ‘Do you blame us?’

The candlelight on Spock’s desk reflected, briefly and beautifully, off the sleek metal barrel of the phaser, until James Tiberius’ large hand reclaimed it.

‘We have not been introduced,’ Spock said. ‘You are the seventh would-be assassin to approach me since the arrival of your vessel here on Vulcan.’

‘Sure, but the other six weren’t sanctioned. I wanted you all to myself.’

‘There are official channels for sparring, if that was your desired outcome.’

James Tiberius lifted both phasers in the fashion reserved for signaling surrender, then lowered them to the floor, setting them on the rug between twin geometric patterns and releasing them, thus relinquishing his significant advantage.

Spock arched a brow.

‘They were for the sehlats,’ James Tiberius explained. ‘Official channels take forever and I don’t have seniority.’

He remained in a crouch, knees bent, knuckles scraped raw and red from his ascent, as he pushed the phasers aside. Humans bled a red unlike any shade found on Vulcan: not the burnt red of the sands or the brazen red of torchlight after sunset. It was a fresh, hot red that bore no resemblance to sunburn or fire, and though Spock was not unfamiliar with it when spilled, it was still foreign.

James Tiberius had come to him already wounded, showing a blatant sign of mortality. As tactics went, it was like no other Spock had encountered.

Then, divested of his singular advantage, without any weapons and having surrendered the majority of his element of surprise, James Tiberius made his move. He tackled Spock from the low ground as though it had been his intention all along to fight only after hobbling himself.

It was foolish. Spock’s strength, as a Vulcan, was obviously superior; without availing himself of preparatory compensations, James Tiberius could not hope for victory. And still, despite the inevitability of defeat, James Tiberius wrapped his arms around Spock’s waist and, through momentum and determination, dragged them both to the ground. His breath came quickly; he had not yet adjusted to the differences in Vulcan’s atmosphere. He hit the floor with a thump and Spock pinned him there with his thighs all-too easily, one hand to his throat.

There was no call for expending any more energy on this curious attack than was necessary to quash the danger. James Tiberius’ skin was thrumming hot against Spock’s palm and the rhythm of his pulse disorganized, scattered from exertion and the strain of their scuffle.

It had not lasted long enough to be considered a proper fight.

James Tiberius’ chest and belly rose and fell, airway constricted by Spock’s fingers.

‘Prince Spock,’ he said.

‘Prince James Tiberius Kirk,’ Spock replied.

‘Jim,’ James Tiberius said. He bucked his weight against Spock’s bracing hold and managed, however briefly, to reverse their positions. His shadow fell over Spock’s face, his grin bright, his cheeks flushed. He reached for Spock’s hand, a documented point of vulnerability in all Vulcans, and Spock flipped him onto his back a second time just as his thumb was brushed by James Tiberius’ callused fingertips.

He felt.

He channeled those feelings.

This time, James Tiberius would find no opening to exploit. He had spent himself despite his imagination and his recklessness, which on Earth was called bravery. And, for whatever reason, he was still grinning.

‘Hey,’ he said again.

‘The time for greetings is past,’ Spock replied. ‘You must know that I will not hesitate to kill you.’

‘Then you admit that I’m a threat?’

‘You entered my room unannounced via my window at night bearing two phasers.’

‘But I didn’t use them.’

‘You made incursion against my well-being, however futile.’

‘Are you kidding? I’ve got you exactly where I want you.’

‘Then you purposefully courted your own defeat.’ Spock paused, interest catching like candlelight on the barrel of a phaser, but internal. His blood was up. He was intrigued, but he would not allow curiosity to prove his undoing. He tightened his knees against James Tiberius’ sides and brought his fingers to the nerve at James Tiberius’ shoulder, where the muscle was thick and tense, applying enough pressure to warn rather than to incapacitate. ‘Explain.’

‘No,’ James Tiberius replied.

‘You are in no position to refuse.’

‘True.’ James Tiberius paused, lips pursed in thought. They were full. ‘I came to offer something.’

‘Two phasers?’ Spock suggested, for there was nothing else.

‘No,’ James Tiberius replied. ‘Myself.’

‘Yourself,’ Spock repeated.

It was uncharacteristic of him to request confirmation of the facts once stated; however, the circumstances were unique.

The offer was unexpected.

In the twenty years and six months of Spock’s life, there had been very little which took Spock by surprise. Therefore, the unexpected alone was worthy of note. It made the proposition extended by James Tiberius something valuable: an unknown variable.

‘Yeah, myself.’ Beneath Spock’s weight, James Tiberius tightened the muscles in his abdomen to squirm, drawing attention to their positions—as though Spock was not already explicitly aware. ‘I’m offering myself up.  _Belly_  up, even.’

‘A reference to a deceased animal,” Spock said. ‘You are not deceased, James Tiberius.’

There was a flinch that accompanied that statement, a wrinkle in James Tiberius’ freckled nose indicating he was not pleased by the sound of his full name. It passed quickly, but not too quickly for a Vulcan’s eyes to catch. Spock was trained in the observation and analysis of the facial expressions of several species, humans chief among them.

Humans had, in the past, proven difficult.

‘I noticed,’ James Tiberius said. ‘Does that mean you’re considering my proposal?’

Spock was considering not just the proposal, but also several other avenues of thought simultaneously. These included the dual meaning of  _proposal_ ; the advantage of the position he currently held over James Tiberius; and four separate ways he could still overcome Spock, were he possessed of the appropriate strength and force.

A human could not hope to overcome a Vulcan in single combat. James Tiberius, with access to the appropriate resources, would have known this when he arrived. No doubt it was this that explained the company of six other assassins; however, the disadvantages of attacking a Vulcan on his own planet were equally apparent.

Spock was therefore persuaded to arrive at the only logical conclusion: that James Tiberius had come to him with a reason beyond the desire to take Spock’s life.

‘You are suggesting an alliance,’ Spock said.

James Tiberius nodded, but this was a distraction tactic, movement designed to draw Spock’s eye so that he would not notice James Tiberius reaching for the knife in his boot.

His earlier undulation had been a pretense anticipating this moment. With precedent, Spock would not suspect this motion’s true purpose when it was repeated.

Spock removed his hand from James Tiberius’ shoulder to catch him swiftly by the wrist just as he brought his knife to Spock’s thigh.

James Tiberius grinned, a slender flash of white teeth that was gone as quickly as lightning.

‘Didn’t like waiting for an answer, Spock. It’s one of my least-likeable traits. I’m impatient.’

‘If your impatience always provides precarious interference, for what reason should I approve of an alliance with you?’

‘Ah.’ No trace of the grin—or the bright-eyed individual who had worn the expression—remained. Spock could still feel the press of the slim blade on the seam over his thigh, but with his fingers wrapped around Jim’s wrist, he had no hope of scoring a wound or drawing green blood. ‘That’s right. I forgot. Vulcans don’t get curious.’

‘Curiosity is treacherous,’ Spock said. ‘To “get” curious is not synonymous with acting upon that curiosity, or allowing it to destroy us.’

‘Like I said, you don’t get curious.’

James Tiberius refused to blink, indicating that he understood more than he intended to share. If he believed the ruse clever, then that was his fault. Still, it was unlikely that he would believe Spock so easily fooled, and therefore he must have known the ruse was obvious. Yet he persisted—through stubbornness or commitment, foolishness or determination.

Or perhaps it was a combination of these qualities.

‘But you do get interested, right?’ James Tiberius continued. ‘Like, for example, why _would_ a prince of Earth scale a dusty Vulcan wall in the dead of night, armed with two phasers, just to throw them away so the two of us could land…’ James Tiberius arched his hips, bringing them together in more immediate friction. Spock held firm, which did not allow them to rock upward according to the rules of momentum, which placed them in an intimate position. If James Tiberius had planned it, then he was cleverer than his prior ruse had suggested. ‘…in this position?’

‘If you intend to heighten the appeal of this alliance through sexual innuendo—’ Spock began.

James Tiberius snorted. Another surprise.

‘Seduction,’ he said. ‘It’s easier to say. It rolls off the tongue.’

‘Seduction,’ Spock replied. He tested, at a surface level, the heady aromas and impulses of the pulse now beating into his fingertips, but it was a confusion of human adrenaline, all motives hidden beneath the basic flush of heat and fear and intrigue.

‘Yeah, you’ve got the hang of it. Vulcan tongues and human tongues aren’t so different.’

‘As seductions go,’ Spock said, ‘this one is not without fault.’

‘Climbing in through windows, providing danger, excitement, mystery…’ James Tiberius allowed himself, inexplicably, to relax, turning his face to one side. It afforded Spock an improved view of his profile—and his full lips. ‘If there was a checklist of qualifications, I hit ‘em all.’

‘Fascinating,’ Spock replied.

‘Yeah,’ James Tiberius said. ‘That’s another one of my charming qualities. Must’ve missed it in the count. Thanks for the reminder.’

‘It was not for your edification,’ Spock informed him.

Jim lifted his thick eyebrows, attempting to convey some private amusement.

‘You wanna know something else, Your Highness?’

‘Have you not finished extolling your own virtues?’ Spock asked.

He had never been confronted so directly by the human penchant for boasting. This too was new, a novelty brought to him by James Tiberius and his assassins from Earth. Spock could feel the quickness of James Tiberius’ breath, the rise and fall of his chest, and the geometry of his body where he rested pinned beneath Spock’s hips.  

‘Forgot to mention,’ Spock felt the sudden tension of James Tiberius’ abdominal wall and attributed it to his conversational strains, ‘I’m  _excellent_  at distractions.’

He moved in a sudden ripple of muscular tension, boots braced against the floor to form the shape of a bow with his body. The force of his flexed shape momentarily unseated Spock’s advantage, but he was on his feet before James Tiberius could use his boot-knife to _his_ advantage, putting distance between him and the slicing arc of the blade. James Tiberius rolled onto his side, flipping the knife in his hand to shift his grip on the weapon, so that the blade pointed toward himself instead of Spock.

The position was not a defensive one but a style favored by certain hand-to-hand combat specialists. Spock’s intelligence on Earth’s royalty did not extensively cover their training techniques; it occurred to him as James Tiberius swiped and Spock again dodged the knife that this would be an excellent opportunity to gather the missing intelligence.

‘Am I to assume that you have thought better of your proposal?’ Spock asked.

There was no shortage of concealed weapons in Spock’s chambers: a lirpa set above the balcony curtain rods and a phaser stored beneath the couch, to say nothing of the two separate phasers James Tiberius had brought with him. Neither he nor Spock saw fit to make a lunge for one.

‘I’m still waiting for  _your_  answer.’

James Tiberius side-stepped onto the wall next to him, using the leverage to kick off and forward, leaping onto Spock from a downward angle. His knife caught Spock’s forearm, ripping the protective straps of leather wrapped around the sleeve and nicking the skin beneath.

There was a reason James Tiberius alone survived the assault on Spock’s palace to make it this far. He was skilled.

A blast of phaser fire struck the column next to Spock’s head, drawing his attention.

As skilled as James Tiberius might have been—beyond Spock’s initial appraisal suggested—he could not be in more than one location at once. He was not the one firing on Spock’s chambers. He was, however briefly, above Spock, about to be unseated and once again pinned, but he flattened himself to Spock’s chest at the first volley, his hair tickling Spock’s cheek, his sweat dripping onto Spock’s skin.

For a moment, equally brief, they breathed as one.

‘Oh yeah,’ James Tiberius said. ‘The alliance. Did I mention I found out about some plots to kill you and came here to warn you?’

‘You did not warn me.’

‘I was getting to it. Got distracted.’ Spock recognized the tensing of James Tiberius’ abdominal muscles, but this time the move worked to both their advantages, as Spock found himself rolled behind the cover of the nearest column. A piece of the stone had been torn loose from the first blast, rubble dusting the side of James Tiberius’ sleeve and chest, whitening his hair. ‘I found out about some plots to kill you.’

‘I have already managed to defend myself against six plots since the arrival of the delegation from Earth.’

The darkness of Spock’s room was silent—unnaturally so, suggesting that pains were being taken by the new threat to avoid detection by keen Vulcan hearing. James Tiberius’ heavy breathing, so close to Spock’s ears, was distraction enough.

Spock covered his mouth, heat blooming along the lengths of his fingers. But James Tiberius understood the directive and held his breath just long enough that Spock was able to detect the faintest of footfalls muffled on the carpet.

Spock’s focus shifted. James Tiberius was watching.

In an instant, he had pulled away, the flash of the boot-knife signaling to Spock what his intentions were. He was quick enough that the signal was not broadcast before he threw the knife, catching a masked intruder in the shoulder just as they lifted their phaser to fire again.

The intruder went down.

Two rose in their place, both equally armed. The two phasers of which James Tiberius had divested himself would not have been unwelcome. But James Tiberius was already on the move again, barreling forward toward one of the assassins with his head down, as though he both intended to bowl them over with the impact of his skull alone, and anticipated that Spock would take care of the other threat.

It was to Spock’s benefit that he did as James Tiberius anticipated.

In this instance.

Spock’s pride was not so insubstantial as to be damaged by working in concert with a second party. The concept of accepting aid was not distasteful; on the contrary, it would be the height of illogic to cast aside an asset in battle for reasons no more significant than personal arrogance.

Such a thing would be un-Vulcan. In matters concerning the Alliance, as the Empire before her, it was important to maintain his Vulcan ideals in order to preserve a consistent sense of self. And, with the frequent overturn of regimes and their living monarchs, shared history was the only legacy any member of the royal family could hope to maintain in the current climate.

The teachings of Surak had not calmed the savage Vulcan passions that threatened to destroy the planet in centuries past. They had instead taught control, the proper channeling of those passions, to logically employ them to their utmost potential.

To understand. To own. To conquer.

These were the facts Spock found himself able to reflect upon before James Tiberius connected with the assassin he had attacked. Their partner in the assault overturned Spock’s sitting room table, a thick, square-cut piece that had been carved from blackened desert rock; no human alone could move it. There was too much action and too many shadows to hide in for even Spock’s eyesight to lend him conclusive certainty, but the bulk of his attacker suggested Klingon heritage.

If these were Klingons, then they had traveled a great distance for an attempt that would not find equal success.

James Tiberius kicked a wayward phaser across the floor. It was impossible to know his intentions—whether it was accidental luck or deliberate assistance, but Spock did not have to discern James Tiberius’ motives in order to profit from them.

He grabbed the phaser from the floor and fired. The blast struck the Klingon in the shoulder, but was no more effective than if the weapon had been set to stun. While the blow was not a killing one, it had the dual purpose of slowing and distracting his enemy.

The sound of a joint being ripped from its socket was a second distraction. James Tiberius’ private battle was reaching a ferocious conclusion, though Spock could not afford to take his eyes off his own attacker to determine the victor. His assailant did not have the same restraint.

This was all the advantage Spock needed in order to move from a defensive position to an offensive one. He lunged forward, using the heavy ballast of his own overturned table to tackle the Klingon with an arm around his throat, knocking him down to the floor.

The impact would wind even a species with more than two lungs in place for redundancy.

Spock was bent over his enemy when a heavy weight braced itself on his back—familiar scents of skin and sweat told him it was James Tiberius, employing Spock for ballast. Spock heard a grunt that belonged to James Tiberius, followed by a grunt that did not, then a thud and a crash, the weight already lifted. It was no longer Spock’s to bear, though the question remained if it had ever been his to begin with.

James Tiberius had sprung upon the prone form, locking his thighs around a throat and holding fast. Without having to guard his own back, if only for the present, Spock doubled his efforts. He could feel the blood and air flow slow, constricted by his grip. When he tightened his elbow at the windpipe, his attacker sputtered before going limp.

They were still alive—but very much unconscious. Spock turned to find James Tiberius behind him, tearing off the mask of the assassin he had wrestled into subjugation and a relatively peaceful sleep.

The mourning tattoos upon the individual’s shaved head, along with the pronounced orbital ridges on their brow, informed Spock that it was a Romulan. When he removed the mask of his own assailant, his suspicions were confirmed. A Klingon and a Romulan.

James Tiberius gave the throat between his thighs a final squeeze as he tossed the mask to the side and raked his fingers through his hair. There was a bruise blooming across his cheekbone and a split on his bottom lip, red blood beading in the seam. He rolled out his shoulder with a crunch, knocking it back into place.

‘Alliance,’ James Tiberius said. ‘Still don’t want it?’

‘I would have been more than capable of dealing with these assassins on my own without encountering significant difficulty.’

‘Sure,’ James Tiberius said. ‘I don’t doubt it. But this way was a hell of a lot more fun, right?’

The collar of his shirt was torn, as was the sleeve at the once dislocated shoulder. There was still dusty residue along the left side of his jaw and chin.

‘As you had prior information that led you to believe assassins would come to my chambers this evening, for what reason did you disarm yourself?’

‘A peace offering,’ James Tiberius said.

Spock did not, as the Earth phrase went, ‘buy it’.

‘Because if I hadn’t put those phasers down, you probably would’ve nerve-pinched me and that’d be the end of it,’ James Tiberius added.

It still did not ‘add up’.

‘I have my reasons,’ James Tiberius concluded. ‘Curious yet?’

Spock’s attraction to him was not shameful. James Tiberius was handsome in a foreign way, and it was possible he was drawn to their shared humanity, a result of his human heritage. It had once been considered a fault—though he had studied it, learned it, subjugated it, until he had transformed it to an advantage.

Attraction itself did not have to prove fatal. As long as that attraction could be contained and controlled, then it was little more than any other fact of life. Hunger, pain, rage, and desire.

‘You’re looking at me like you wanna eat me,’ James Tiberius said. ‘Is _that_ what Vulcan curiosity looks like?’

‘Vulcans do not consume meat, let alone the flesh of any advanced species,’ Spock said. ‘If your intelligence has led you to believe otherwise, then you have been misinformed. Perhaps this can be attributed to an Alliance propaganda campaign about the fictional and unsavory practices of my people.’

James Tiberius blinked. It was slow, an appealing movement designed to draw attention to the color of his eyes, as well as the dark length of the lashes that framed his gaze.

‘You think the worst thing people could think to cook up about you guys is that you eat people?’ James Tiberius held up his hand before Spock could speak to confirm or deny this latest statement. ‘Never mind. If I was gonna feed anyone a line about Vulcans, it’d be about your keen ability to turn innuendo into something gross.’

‘You are the one who mentioned ingestion,’ Spock said.

James Tiberius leaned closer, as though this response had been something he expected. Having been given the chance to observe his fighting techniques, both as an opponent and an ally, Spock could categorize this behavior as being sized up as the former.

Or perhaps as a suitable match.

James Tiberius circled him like a predator. Spock, in turn, did not allow his focus to waver, taking refuge in the stillness, cloaked in shadows.

‘I was thinking more along the lines of being  _devoured_ ,’ James Tiberius said.

This time, it was not the words themselves that bore meaning, but the emphasis placed on them. Spock was not in the habit of inferring anything but the literal definition of anyone’s speech, but it was nearly impossible to ignore the insinuation built into Jim’s words. More reliable than allusion was the obvious dilation of James Tiberius’ pupils.

Scientific facts were always more trustworthy than even the most colorful inflection.

There was the distinct possibility that James Tiberius had been speaking in earnest about his intentions toward Spock. The attraction, at least, was impossible to deny.

‘Am I gonna have to kiss you before you get the picture?’ James Tiberius asked. ‘I thought Vulcans were supposed to be quick on the uptake.’

He surged toward Spock, who caught James Tiberius easily, flipping him over the junction of his hip and onto the sofa, which was miraculously undamaged after the assault on Spock’s chambers. His fingers seized James Tiberius’ wrist beneath his torn sleeve, ripped from elbow to hem.

The skin-to-skin connection revealed nothing more than a confirmation of what Spock had already taught himself to expect: arousal, heat, a frenetic quality of thought that denoted excitement.

To borrow another particular human phrasing for a human subject: his blood was up.

Whatever deeper motives James Tiberius carried with him, they remained hidden in the tumult.

‘Will there be another attack made by these unknowns?’ Spock asked.

James Tiberius shifted, one knee drawn up. When he made no move for another knife hidden in his boot Spock had to presume the position was intended to heighten sexual arousal. ‘Not that I know of. Not tonight, anyway.’

‘I speak not only of the other intruders, but of you, as well.’

‘C’mon. You’ve got me pinned,’ James Tiberius said.

‘Yet you yourself wished to impress upon me the success of your distraction tactics. Not that you have intended to do me harm—merely prove your capabilities as a combatant.’

‘So it worked, huh?’ James Tiberius swiped his tongue over his bottom lip.

‘Had you believed failure a possible outcome of your visit, you should not have come,’ Spock replied.

James Tiberius huffed, sweat still beading the side of his throat and the spot where it bobbed when he swallowed. Spock could only see it because of the torn fabric at the collar, falling open in a jagged “V”.

‘You desire me,’ Spock said.

‘You sound pretty sure of yourself.’

‘I have analyzed the data and come to the only possible conclusion.’

‘What comes next? Field research?’ James Tiberius held back a laugh by biting his bottom lip.

Spock leaned down, closer, until his full shadow had fallen to cover James Tiberius on the couch like a blanket—or like a shroud. It was possible that Spock’s close proximity to fully human passions and impulses had colored his thoughts, lending them metaphor and allegory. He could not—would not—lose himself to it, appraising the eddies and pulls of James Tiberius’ physical wants and categorizing them. How they could be approached; how they could be used.

His lips were close, their mouths nearly meeting. James Tiberius sucked in a breath that pulled coolly at Spock’s skin. When he licked his bottom lip again, the tip of his tongue caught Spock’s as well, tracing the curve before drawing back.

James Tiberius believed Spock was teasing.

And so he was.

Spock indulged him by kissing him, long and hard, fingers tightening around James Tiberius’ wrist and accepting the blood-rush that followed.

‘Mmf,’ James Tiberius murmured, a humming groan caught and muffled in his open mouth.

Then, Spock pulled away.

‘Your proposal appears to have its merits after all,’ he said, releasing his hold. Were James Tiberius to make any sudden movements, Spock was now ready for him. ‘I will call my counselors, and you will tell me everything you know about these assassins.’

*


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And Jim tries. Oh my God does he try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much guys for the comments, which got me through a rough couple of days! And I will try to update every three days!

Of the many possible outcomes Jim’d thought about—most of them outcomes he didn’t want to think about—standing in a Vulcan war-room talking to Prince S’chn T’gai Spock’s five most loyal retainers about the Klingon-Romulan uprising he’d been following, closely and secretly, for the past three months hadn’t been at the forefront of his mind.

Spock’s advisers regarded Jim with as much trust as he deserved, which was almost less than none. Every move he made was tracked and charted without the hooded, dark interest Spock’d shown him when they were alone.

That hadn’t worked out the way he’d expected, either.

Contrary to popular belief, Jim didn’t have a death wish. There was never a point during which he believed he’d be going into this with a chance that Spock would put him down. Their hand-to-hand fighting skills might not have been on par, but Jim had a phaser tucked down his pants and another one hidden in the small of his back. If things had taken a turn for the worst, he would’ve been prepared.

Mostly, of course, he’d been hoping they wouldn’t.

What limited information there was on Spock was just enough to reel Jim in on the interest scale. He wouldn’t have chosen just anyone to form a political alliance with. The seduction part was only slightly less important.

He’d spent a long time going over potential allies, categorizing them by their strengths and weaknesses, their personal allegiances as well as any prior treaties they might find themselves beholden to.

Spock had come out on top.

No one was more shocked than Jim.

If he’d been asked a year ago who he’d look to for assistance, Vulcans would’ve been at the bottom of his list. Secretive, superior, with a tendency to favor intelligence over brute force, Jim wouldn’t have bet he could wrestle any kind of goodwill out of them. It was a “him” thing as much as it was a “them” thing.

His own personality never meshed well with serious types.

But he’d do anything to get his endeavor off the ground, and in order to get going, he needed more resources than Earth’s current coffers could provide.

It wouldn’t hurt to have the military expertise of another well-trained mind to bounce his ideas against, either. From what Jim had already seen of Spock’s combat abilities, the reputation of Vulcan restraint was more of an ideal than a current reality.

And if he’d been holding back, and _that_ was the result…

Then this was going to be interesting.

Or fascinating, as Spock himself had suggested.

‘You must understand, Prince James Tiberius, that we cannot simply take you at your word.’ Spock’s retainers were indistinguishable beneath their hoods, monotone and genderless. Jim was close to flipping a hood over just to see what would happen if he did. ‘Our agents will have to verify some of the finer details of your claims before we can commit to anything.’

‘Naturally,’ Jim said. ‘Make sure you don’t send anyone you like too much, though. Some of that’s dangerous work. I barely got the details the first time, myself.’

The retainers didn’t nod. That was maybe the strangest detail in a situation already complicated by taking place in a room full of hooded creeps. The lack of acknowledgment made Jim feel like he was actually talking to a room full of statues, albeit statues currently evaluating a proposal that meant more to Jim than the display he'd put on in Spock’s private quarters might have suggested.

‘Your concern is noted.’

No, it wasn’t.

They had no idea about Jim’s concerns; it wasn’t clear if they even had concerns of their own. Rumors of Vulcan intensity were only as exaggerated as rumors of Vulcan power, brutality, and raw mercilessness. And if Jim believed every rumor he heard, he’d have a lot of questions for himself to start with.

Spock nodded to the adviser on his left. Jim still wasn’t able to tell if Spock trusted these hooded statues or if they feared him enough that he trusted their fear.

Jim’s brother had taught him there was a difference.

Then again, that attitude to people—strangers, allies, enemies—hadn’t served him too well.

Jim set his jaw and crossed his arms over the front of his torn shirt as the retainers filed out, silent executors of plans Jim had been crazy enough—and clever enough—to set in motion. Phase one was complete.

The phaser down the front of his pants was proving uncomfortable in addition to the sticky sweat from the fight, half evaporated from his skin by the relentlessly dry Vulcan air. Despite the impromptu ventilation in his clothing, there was no relief for Jim from the tension in the room, where Spock stood with hands clasped behind his back.He hadn’t left with the others.

Obviously, he didn’t think he could afford to take his eyes off Jim for a second.

Jim straightened his shoulders, dropping one hand to his hip. If Spock was looking at him, it was in his best interest that he like what he saw. A kiss had been less than what Jim was prepared not just to offer but to make good on, but the memory of that was muddled with the memory of the fighting.

Spock moved fast. He had that Vulcan strength, finely tuned, keen and unflinching.

The silence had lasted too long.

‘You’re sure they’re loyal to you?’ Jim asked. ‘I was never able to trust a goon hiding under a hood, myself.’

‘I am certain of their loyalty,’ Spock replied.

He wasn’t giving Jim much to work with regarding that loyalty. Of course, Jim hadn’t been intending to sleep much while on Vulcan, but eventually, he was going to need to catch a few hours to replenish without having to worry about a blade finding its way between his shoulder blades.

The scar from the last time he’d trusted someone not to stab him in the back would get in the way of a new betrayal, anyway.

He could push himself to seventy-two hours without sleep, maximum, before all systems shut down.

‘Funny,’ Jim said. ‘There aren’t many rumors about Vulcan loyalty.’

‘It is not necessarily common,’ Spock replied.

‘So it’s something you inspire in the people under you?’ Another sly attempt at innuendo, bait that Jim suspected Spock wouldn’t take. But if he kept dangling it over time—if he got the time—it might amount to something. Jim toyed with a shred of fabric. ‘You don’t have something I could change into, do you?’ he added. ‘Unless you’re attached to these.’

It wasn’t going to strike the necessary level of fear in the large, low hearts of Vulcan strangers if he appeared before them, bruised and tattered, a perfect example of everything Vulcans thought of weak and lowly humans.

Spock’s eyes raked over him with a hot, pointed interest. It was funny: in all the stuff Jim had read about the Vulcans, none of the archived intel had mentioned their searing eye contact.

‘It is my understanding that I have not had the sufficient time to form one of the infamous, human attachments of sentiment to inanimate objects,’ Spock said.

His eyes found Jim’s face, evaluating an unfortunate fact of human biology: Jim’s complexion was prone to blushing. It was just lucky that most Vulcans didn’t know how to differentiate between arousal and provocation.

Their introduction had been colored by both.

‘Is that a yes?’ Jim tugged at the torn collar of his shirt, flashing Spock a little blood and nipple. The damage wasn’t bad enough for him to get stitched up; he’d clot on his own, so long as he didn’t do anything stupid to reopen fresh wounds.

He’d made a good first impression. There was no need to go on bleeding for his planet.

In any case, Jim couldn’t hope to replicate the effect with the other members of the Vulcan leadership.

Spock was special. Different. His position as a prince leant him agency and power, but truth be told Jim hadn’t chosen him because of his prestige and political freedoms. He’d chosen him because of his heritage: half human, half Vulcan, with a rumored estranged brother of his own. If anyone could be called upon to do some unconventional thinking on behalf of an untested ally, then it’d be the guy who was out of place in his own home.

Jim was placing a lot on instinct, but he’d always been able to trust his gut.

It was all he had in Sam’s absence.

‘The practicality of your suggestion has been noted,’ Spock said. ‘If you will accompany me.’

He turned on the polished heel of his high boots, not waiting for a confirmation. He wasn’t wrong in assuming Jim remembered the way back to his chambers when he kept Jim ahead of him, more like a prisoner of war than an esteemed guest. In the time it took him to debrief the retainers and advisers, someone had repaired the damage to the room. The table was back in place, the shattered glass from one of the partitioned walls swept up and replicated whole. All of the slashes and phaser burn marks on the softer furniture had been seamlessly repaired.

Jim flopped over onto the sofa, where he’d been tangled with Spock the night before.

‘I must inform you that if it is your intention to make an attempt at inconspicuousness by wearing Vulcan apparel, your features remain unmistakably human.’

‘I could get one of those hoods your people were wearing—cover up the unmistakable parts.’

‘Their silence is legendary. You would not manage it.’

‘That’s an awfully quick judgment.’ Fabric tickled Jim’s skin, then stuck to it. He tucked his head against his crooked arm, palm bracing the base of his skull. As long as he maintained the low ground and didn’t bring himself up to Spock’s height or level, then he’d seem small. Unthreatening. Granted, he’d blown in wild and untamed, leaping on Spock with all the forethought of a starving _le-matya_ , but that was another notch in his favor.

Prejudices could work for you. Not all of humanity had succumbed to the monstrous. But Vulcans did seem to like taming large, ferocious animals and keeping them as pets.

‘Maybe you don’t want me to cover up,’ Jim added.

According to more of Jim’s hard-won intel, Prince Spock had a fiancée—but, given the fact that she’d turned against him and led an opposing faction of ruthless Vulcan warriors, Jim didn’t think T’Pring was going to get in his way.

‘You suggest attachment where none has formed. The action here may be swift, but do not mistake it for possessing deeper meaning.’

Spock crossed the room, maintaining the perfect mathematical angle of observation to let Jim know he wouldn’t get away with a hiccup, much less another attempt at violence. He’d been expecting cuffs, a collar, chains or something equally humiliating at first.

So, all things considered, he was doing better than he’d had any right to expect.

‘You will find Vulcan’s temperature as ruthless as its people,’ Spock said, returning with a bundle of dark fabric.

Jim sought to find his hand amidst the folds, to brush his fingers purposefully against Spock’s knuckles. He managed, but only at the last moment, contact too brief to light the spark in Spock’s eyes again. ‘Is that why you’re giving me a sweater? A sweater in the desert—Vulcans might be more ruthless than Klingons.’

Spock arched a brow. Jim set the sweater aside and shrugged out of his torn shirt without replacing it, wiping the sweat off the back of his neck with the palm of his hand.

Spock was watching. Spock had to watch. Jim was still an unknown; Spock logically couldn’t take his eyes off him, and Jim could work that to his benefit.

‘It’s hot enough,’ Jim said.

‘You will be even more conspicuous,’ Spock replied.

Jim stretched, flexed, and avoided a show of muscle beyond the aesthetic. He wasn’t as big as Sam, or as fit, but he’d tried this out in the mirror for years, and in practice, he tended to pull it off. ‘If you can’t beat em…’ Jim tapped the tattoo ink on the left side of his chest, still fresh enough that it wasn’t faded. ‘That’s why I got this: a target. Lets anyone who might not be familiar with human anatomy know _exactly_ where the heart is.’

‘A curious tactic.’

‘Target practice for the enterprising,’ Jim replied.

‘You would have me believe in the comfort of your arrogance,’ Spock said.

‘It’s worked so far.’ Jim shrugged with one shoulder, keeping his injuries still. ‘I’m all in one piece. Can’t argue with results.’

‘On the contrary,’ Spock said, ‘it was not your results with which I thought to argue, but your common sense.’

Jim pursed his lips, blowing him a little kiss without the accompanying hand motion. It didn’t escape his attention that Spock was watching him again—still, with renewed sharpness—although it was starting to be difficult to distinguish between good interest and the kind of thing that motivated onlookers to crowd around a shuttle crash in the local hangar: morbid fascination.

‘I’ve got more tattoos, you know,’ Jim replied. So long as they were talking about common sense, it made sense to keep on topic. He touched his stomach above the waist of his pants, brushing his thumbs over the jut of his hipbones where they disappeared beneath the heavy fabric. One thing he’d learned since his arrival: leather and the desert didn’t mix. ‘You wanna see them?’

Spock raised the same eyebrow, shrewd and angular. Jim was dying to get close enough to learn whether their tapering was a natural shape or if Vulcans shared a cultural desire to pluck.

He’d been closer last night, but there hadn’t been enough light.

‘You are the one who suggested alternative clothing,’ Spock said. ‘And yet you seem contradictorily interested in remaining undressed.’

‘I’m just showing you what you could get out of this little arrangement of ours.’ Jim rose and did a full turn, holding his arms out to the side.

‘I see.’ Spock didn’t sound terribly impressed. ‘And the phaser down your pants is also part of the offer?’

Jim cleared his throat, feeling for the weapon in question before wiggling it free and tossing it onto the sofa. It wasn’t the hand he was hoping to have down his pants, but diplomacy was all about compromise.

It was important for him to get as much practice as possible. Working with others never seemed worthwhile. Hell, he didn’t even get along with Sam most days.

That didn’t mean he could leave him to rot at the hands of his enemies.

The alliance.

‘It is my understanding that a comment on the size of your weapon would be appropriate at this juncture.’

Jim looked between the phaser and Spock, trying to determine whether the heat was already affecting his ability to take in and process information, or if Vulcan human was more than a desert mirage.

‘Was that—a joke? A  _sex_ joke?’

Spock’s face remained inscrutable. That was definitely a yes.

Jim wasn’t in the mood to laugh but he managed to puff out a chuckle anyway to show Spock the effort was appreciated and the results were successful. There was one way not to get on somebody’s good side—regardless of where their allegiances might lie—and that was not laughing at their jokes. A silence after a punchline had ruined the tentative peace between the Tellarites and the Andorians ten years back.

‘Though the parallels drawn between weapons and anatomy have never been sensible, the allusions are nevertheless prevalent,’ Spock said.

‘What about that?’ Jim pointed to a long coat, lined in white fur, resting on a hook by a severe-looking chair. ‘That’s more my style.’

‘You complain about a sweater only to seek out a coat,’ Spock replied.

‘I’m fascinating,’ Jim reminded him. He started toward the coat, but Spock strode forward to block him—which at least brought them chest to chest, almost eye to eye, Spock just taller enough that he could look down his nose at Jim and Jim could look up through his lashes at Spock. Then, at an impasse, they remained in that position like they were on opposite sides of a rope bridge over a bottomless ravine, not so close their stomachs touched when Jim sucked in a deep enough breath.

‘You are here,’ Spock said.

As far as seduction went, he’d done better with the weapon analogy.

‘So are you. Looks like we have at least one thing in common.’

‘Shared location is not a point of compatibility.’

‘Any docking bay in a meteor storm.’

‘The question remains,’ Spock continued, without missing a beat, much less acknowledging when Jim’s belly bumped his, ‘as to why you are here.’

‘To save the life of a handsome, infamous stranger,’ Jim said. ‘I have my motives.’

‘Which have not yet been revealed.’

‘You could try searching for them,’ Jim suggested. ‘See what else I’m hiding down my pants.’

‘Another phaser,’ Spock replied, ‘located in an area where innuendo would offer imagery of the grotesque, rather than the suggestive.’

‘Hard to reach, though.’ Jim shifted, feeling the skin-warmed metal pressing into the back of his thigh. ‘If you want me unarmed, you’re gonna have to get that one for yourself.’

For a race of the unfailingly, unflinchingly logical, so in control of their every urge that their minds had been weaponized, Vulcans were still capable of surprises. When Spock gripped Jim at the hip and pulled him forward, Jim’s bare chest against the unexpectedly soft fabric of Spock’s robes, and slid his free hand down Jim’s back, under the leather waistband, Jim’s throat tightened and his lips parted. He waited for a kiss that didn’t land, cool fingers hooking around the shaft of Jim’s second hidden phaser to remove it in one clean, swift pull.

‘If there are others,’ Spock said, still holding the phaser, ‘I will not be the one to remove them.’

‘ _That’s_ no fun,’ Jim replied, though he was more out-of-breath than he’d have liked.

‘There is one last matter, James Tiberius.’

Jim allowed the full name, since it didn’t sound the same when Spock was the one saying it. Haughty voice; haughty title. It worked. ‘Yeah? I’m game.’

‘You will spar with me again,’ Spock said.

Well. That hadn’t been what Jim expected, either. Maybe his instincts were off today. Maybe it was the Vulcan thing. There was no limit to the factors that could’ve been throwing off Jim’s mental acuity, not the least of which using his skull as a Romulan battering ram.

‘That’s a little commanding,’ he said.

‘You did not come to me because you sought someone whose will would prove weak,’ Spock replied.

Jim inhaled, sharp and small. There was sweat prickling at the back of his neck, cheeks flushed with the rush of blood through his veins and arteries. The cause was split evenly: a combination of the Vulcan desert temperatures and personal excitement.

He’d thought that the lack of humidity would make the weather less oppressive, but hadn’t taken the lacking oxygen in the atmosphere into account. Fortunately, the assassins that’d come after Spock were off-worlders too. They had the same disadvantage.

Jim knew Spock wouldn’t.

Superior strength, agility, and a body designed to thrive in the present environment.

It wasn’t that Jim was against the idea of a steep challenge. The odds had always been stacked against him. It was merely that he’d set the rules of their previous encounter, and he’d had the element of surprise on his side. Now, they were firmly ensconced in Spock’s territory.

A more prudent man might’ve quit before he could lose and backed out. But then, a more prudent man would’ve left Sam for dead when he was taken by Romulan agents.

Thinking about Sam was all Jim needed to switch gears from romantic to combative. It crystallized Jim’s motives, cleared his head.

‘Right here?’ He drew his hand over Spock’s side, feeling for the slow, even-paced beat of his heart. ‘Doesn’t seem polite to trash the room when someone’s gone to all the trouble of fixing it up for you.’

‘I have the proper facilities.’ Somehow, Spock managed to make that sound like a confession instead of an oral tour of the grounds. ‘A training room. We would not be disturbed.’

‘A little privacy  _and_ someplace I don’t have to worry about smashing up the furniture?’ Jim drew his hand away to gesture, grandly, toward the door. ‘Lead the way, Your Highness.’

‘As you are not possessed of the foreknowledge necessary to direct me, it would only be logical for me to take the lead,’ Spock pointed out.

It was lucky Jim hadn’t tracked him down for his charm. Otherwise, Spock’s behavior might’ve seemed like a rude awakening, instead of just plain rude.

‘Fine, fine.’ Jim held up both hands. ‘You took both my phasers, so I won’t shoot you in the back.’

‘You would not find yourself successful even if you were to try,’ Spock replied.

The training room was outdoors—because of  _course_ it was—and it looked more like a polished Zen garden than somewhere to spend time beating on enemy combatants. There were high walls around the square of pale sand, made of smoothed and polished stone, without a single foothold for any would-be climber to make an assault while Spock was otherwise engaged. Spock locked the door to the miniature arena with a key he wore around his neck and Jim whistled.

‘Key instead of a codepad? That’s old school.’

‘As families rise and fall,’ Spock said, ‘traditions remain constant.’

He removed the key on its cord first, then his outer robes second. Jim watched as he tugged off his turtleneck—thoughtful of him to make sure they matched, though there were fewer points of manipulation now that his clothes were streamlined. Jim had been planning on grabbing what he could and yanking as hard as he could, but without the heavy folds of cumbersome fabric, that strategy was lost.

Jim grinned, turning around to roll out the tension in his shoulders and present Spock with an important view.

The scar between his shoulder blades had hurt like hell when it was fresh, in more ways than one—Sam’d told him you never forgot your first betrayal, and he’d been right—but it did send a message. It encouraged anyone who didn’t know him to underestimate him when he wanted it to; when they thought about it later, they realized a scar was a sign of triumph, not defeat.

‘Our session was interrupted earlier,’ Spock added, voice clear and deep-striking through the dry Vulcan air. ‘We did not have the opportunity to finish what we started.’

Jim blinked the sweat out of his eyes. Sam would’ve had the advantage of weight and height, but if every advantage could be a disadvantage, the same had to be true in reverse. The taller you were, the farther you had to fall.

‘You’re my first _and_ second time going hand-to-hand with a Vulcan.’ Jim circled Spock as Spock circled him, until they stood facing each other. Again, Jim dropped into a crouch. Keeping himself low to the ground, increasing his force per square inch, was his best bet of getting Spock on his back.

A handful of sand—maybe a grab for Spock’s sweater, flicking it toward him, distracting him—that could work.

Spock’s stance and style couldn’t have been more different. Jim had time to appreciate the poise, the posture, the perfect stillness of his body and the menace that stillness implied. His shadow fell long and lean across the sand. Jim’s eyes were drawn down the angles of his bare arms to his hands, which were beautiful in the way tigers were beautiful, or antique Romulan Warbirds. He didn’t waste a single motion, didn’t crack his knuckles to intimidate or shift his weight from side to side to split Jim’s focus.

That was one of Jim’s favorite tactics, personally. He tested the give and slide of the sand beneath the balls of his feet so he wouldn’t misjudge a step and slip.

Then, he lunged.

Spock didn’t side-step him the way anyone else would have. Instead, he held his ground. Jim connected with him at the waist, arms grappling with him, and Spock went down—but it was planned. It had to be planned. A second later, less, their positions were flipped, Spock above Jim instead of Jim above Spock. Sand bit into Jim’s bare flesh.

Granulated heat beneath him and Spock’s lithe muscular frame above. For a second, Jim forgot why he was fighting. It didn’t seem like a worthwhile endeavor, but that brief pause was how Spock managed to flip him over onto his stomach, making Jim feel like a fried egg in a pan.

There was no knife to pull out of his boot this time. Sparring was different from an attempted assassination, even one put on for show.  _Someone_  had to prove themselves trustworthy. And since Jim was the one who’d traveled the distance to make an impression, it was on him to demonstrate why he deserved to stay.

Spock pinned one of his arms behind his back, pulling until Jim’s freshly dislocated shoulder joint twinged. The sudden sharp pain made him gasp, jerking his head up to avoid getting a mouthful of desert sand.

‘It would not be wise to struggle,’ Spock said. ‘Even the slightest pressure in either direction would pull your shoulder out of its socket.’

‘Don’t worry about my sockets.’ Jim didn’t so much as twitch, stomach muscles burning with the effort it took to hold his body taut and aloft from the sand below him. ‘I think it’s too early in our relationship for repeat performances.’

His breaths came in short, sharp little pants. Spock’s grip didn’t ease up. Jim couldn’t help respecting him for that, in a strained, overheated kind of way.

That was probably the atmosphere talking. Oxygen deprivation kicking in. He groaned, squirming slightly in place just to test Spock’s resolve. Tight pain flared down through his arm.

‘You do not follow advice,’ Spock said. ‘For someone who hopes to forge an alliance, you have yet to exhibit many favorable qualities.’

‘Your guys seemed happy enough to take my information,’ Jim replied.

‘The value of intelligence is not marred by one’s inability to develop a working relationship.’ Spock’s hand was tight around Jim’s wrist.

Jim couldn’t help but wonder what kind of read he was getting off him with that touch telepathy. Vulcans maintained mystery around the specifics to avoid informed exploitation, but had to be as much of a distraction as it was an advantage. Maybe Jim was doing better than he thought by keeping his skin exposed; it just wasn’t the diversion he’d planned on when it came to showing off his body.

With every second that Spock remained over him, Jim was getting closer to eating sand.

‘So this is what?’ He started to crane his head backward, before thinking better of that, too. ‘Some kind of job interview? An  _oral_  exam?’

‘Was that a “sex joke”?’ Spock asked, echoing Jim’s earlier words.

They had the banter down. And banter was only the beginning of chemistry.

Jim grinned, even if Spock couldn’t see it. Maybe he could feel it instead. Spock’s fighting skills weren’t all Jim could appreciate—or the line of his throat, the lean muscles of his back. He was preserving his end of these volleys, slow and steady, just reticent enough to pique Jim’s interest.

‘That depends,’ Jim replied, ‘on if you’ve got me where you want me.’

‘You presume my wants involve you.’

‘Now you’re adding insult to injury.’

‘If you believe this is injury…’ Spock’s free hand ghosted over the dead flesh of the scar on Jim’s back. Jim could only sense it from the skin around it, heightened sensation meeting no sensation at all to compensate. That was him all over. ‘You pretend to know very little, James Tiberius.’

‘You pretend to _want_ very little, Prince Spock.’

Spock’s pause gave Jim just enough wiggle room to do what he’d been planning on the entire time—surrender a smaller injury to gain better ground. It’d be worth it.

His shoulder popped; pain seared him through to the bone. But Spock’s hold was broken, his leverage lost, and Jim used his weight to overturn them, sandy belly on Spock’s bare chest.

Another surprise. Another point of proof. He grinned down into Spock’s face and Spock’s rigidity didn’t, sadly, extend to a clear sign of arousal. Vulcan self-control was an incredible thing.

‘Your improvisational skills have not gone unnoticed,’ Spock said.

His breath was on Jim’s mouth, not for the first time. Jim’s pain grounded him; fortunately, most of his injured arm had already gone numb, and he’d regret getting the feeling back once he snapped it back into place anyway. Might as well enjoy not hurting for a while longer.

‘And that’s what I bring to the table,’ Jim said. ‘I don’t _just_ break the rules. Sometimes I put something out there, something your statues-in-waiting can’t give you—a crazy little Earth talent called imagination. Look,’ Jim added, leaning closer, letting his lips brush over Spock’s—as determined as ever to make this work, because failure wasn’t an option at this point, ‘just think about what we could achieve if we worked together.’

‘We are currently half-naked on the sand and you have allowed me to dislocate your arm.’

‘You say that like it’s a bad thing.’ Jim snapped after Spock’s mouth; he was unbelievably susceptible to teasing.

‘Hardly a notable achievement.’

‘That’s because we’re fighting each other,’ Jim said, ‘instead of fighting _with_ each other.’

‘The distinction—’

Jim couldn’t let Spock bring logic into spontaneity, which was—now that he’d lost the phasers—his most convincing weapon. ‘Meld with me,’ he whispered, every grain of sand digging into his skin now digging into Spock’s too. ‘I’ve read about it. Heightened connection. Amplified skill in battle. Your strength; my ingenuity. We’d be unstoppable.’

Spock’s silence wasn’t exactly encouraging.

‘And the sex’d be even better, too,’ Jim added, grin threatening to crack.

‘I judge by the erratic nature of your speech that you have taken leave of your senses.’ Somehow, even pinned to the sand, Spock managed to make it sound like he was winning the fight. ‘Perhaps an overabundance of pain has affected your better judgment.’

Jim shrugged, one-shouldered. ‘You gonna psychoanalyze me now? I thought this was a sparring match. Supposed to fight with our bodies, not our words.’

‘That is a limited definition. Battles can be won without shedding a single drop of blood.’ Spock raised his upper lip in a half-hearted snarl—or maybe he was still trying to get away from Jim’s mouth.

‘You know, you’d look really hot with a beard,’ Jim said.

It’d get in the way of kissing, but everything else with Spock was already a challenge. He liked the hard-soft contrast. It was the fun part of what brought him to Vulcan, the icing on the kidnapped brother cake.

‘Is that your attempt at deflecting a perceived verbal assault?’ Spock’s eyes traveled from Jim’s face to the tattoo on his chest, studying the position of his heart like he was thinking about tearing it out. That wasn’t a traditional Vulcan technique, but as always, Spock was something of a wild card. ‘I feel obligated to inform you that I am not easily distracted.’

‘You don’t say.’ Jim spread his thighs to bring his hips down into Spock’s, demonstrating his favored form of distraction.

Their hearts might’ve been in different locations, but thankfully other vital anatomical whereabouts remained the same. Spock didn’t flinch, but Jim saw a telltale flush of green spreading fine and sickly across his cheeks, pooling in the exposed line of his throat and reaching the pointed tips of his ears.

Not for the first time—and he was beginning to suspect it wouldn’t be the last—Jim found himself the one betrayed by his own attempts at creating a diversion. None of the literature about Spock had mentioned the dark, hypnotic quality of his gaze or the way he parted his lips to speed the intake of air to his lungs.

‘You do not understand what you have requested.’ Spock’s voice was beginning to fray; Jim could’ve sworn he caught a whisper of emotion in amidst that steady calm. ‘A mind meld is not an endeavor to be undertaken lightly. And a more permanent connection has never been attempted with a human before.’

‘You sure?’ Jim asked, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop himself. ‘What about your mom?’

Wrong move. Jim knew it even before he found himself winded and on his back—again—one of Spock’s hands closing around his throat. Spock’s fingers, which Jim had considered sucking moments ago, seeing if that sensitivity worked other places than hand-to-hand, were about as tight as the le-matya’s collar in the royal menagerie. And Jim thought his brain couldn’t get more desperate for oxygen.

Sensitive subject.

If this was going to be it, then Jim might as well meet his end with his eyes open. He fixed them on Spock’s, refusing to blink, even as the sand stung and the dry air burned.

There was heat behind the hardened control. Or maybe that was a trick of the edges of Jim’s vision closing inward on him.

‘Vulcan curiosity,’ he rasped. ‘I saved your life, and now, you’re going to take mine.’

‘A wise definition of Vulcan curiosity,’ Spock replied, but without explanation or warning, he relinquished his hold.

Jim could breathe again—if only by comparison. He wouldn’t call it _breathing_ to suck in gritty, thin air when his lungs were screaming for something more, his hands already balled into fists in case Spock decided to change his mind. Spock observed them, then rose in one swift motion, never taking his eyes off Jim’s scraped knuckles.

‘I’d ask for a hand up,’ Jim said, talking to shake off the jangling nerves making his limbs twitch, ‘but since you’ve _already_ refused to kiss me…’

His shoulder twinged again when he sat up; before he had the chance to think even once about it, he popped the joint in again, and the rush of pain dulled his other physical reactions, possibly for days. Possibly for the rest of his life.

‘You thought about it, though,’ Jim added. He stood and ignored the dizziness that followed, scuffed furrows of sand like snow angels swooping and swirling in front of his eyes. They’d made a real mess of the fussily raked arena. ‘What it’d be like to fight, side by side, as one…’

‘You do not understand,’ Spock repeated.

‘Anything in particular?’

‘Everything that is pertinent.’ Intelligently, Spock didn’t return the key and its cord around his neck, considering how easily Jim could’ve used it to garrote him. He looped it around his wrist, dark clothes draped over one arm. There was a narrow scrape of flesh on his upper back, blooming greener than a flush. ‘You will be placed under high security until the individuals responsible for the attack last night are apprehended by my operatives.’

Jim drew close, waiting to be pinned down, but Spock allowed it without rising to the bait. ‘Think about it, Your Highness.’ He took Spock’s hand with his own, both of them dirty, rough skin raking over Spock’s palm. ‘When has anybody in this entire galaxy actually had a partner they could _trust_? We’d be unstoppable.’

‘There is no such thing,’ Spock replied, ‘as that which is unstoppable.’

He seemed pretty certain of it.

So it was up to Jim to prove him wrong.

*


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The history of the Terran Empire and other things to consider before melding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE NOTE MY LAPTOP HAS DIED so I'm bringing it in to be fixed on Saturday (tomorrow) which is why I am posting this chapter a day early. As I have nothing without this laptop I am not entirely sure when the next chapter will be up but I will do my very very very best to stick to a regular schedule once the issue with my laptop is resolved! SOBS! I AM SO SORRY!

James Tiberius Kirk was a man of dubious reputation and fierce charisma. It was impossible to construct an accurate count of his loyal followers, judging that all of them had declared their allegiance in private—as was the human custom, in order to conceal the true measure of anyone’s assets.

Hidden strength was something Spock could appreciate. While James Tiberius’ predilection for flashy, obvious statements was less to his taste, Spock had not yet been able to discern how much of that behavior was put on for show, in order to make a calculated impression, and how much of it was intrinsic to his character.

Of everything Spock had tasked himself to verify about James Tiberius’ claims, his personality should have been of the least consequence.

The facts were these: that James Tiberius was popular as a figurehead, though it was impossible to determine the true measure of his influence; that his kingdom had been weakened by both the death of his father, Emperor George Kirk, and the abduction of his brother, the heir George Samuel, a year later; that he had trained for a command position in the Terran Empire’s Starfleet until his brother’s disappearance had forced him to assume other responsibilities under his mother, Empress Winona; that for thirteen months he had been secretly laying a network of spies amidst the Romulan and Klingon Alliance, perhaps to seek news of his brother; and that no fewer than seventy percent of those agents had perished in the gathering of said information.

The percentage was not favorable.

Nonetheless, his information held every appearance of veracity.

If so, it was the most any member of the now-dwindled Empire had managed to glean without losing his own life in the process. Somehow, James Tiberius had managed to evade galactic notice in the years he had spent gathering intelligence, which meant that despite his reckless behavior, he must have possessed the ability to be circumspect when he so chose.

Spock’s most loyal retainers were still working to verify the details James Tiberius had brought to their attention regarding the space station upon which George Samuel was being held.

It had become apparent, given the evidence, that their guest had come with a rescue mission in mind.

Spock could not assume that James Tiberius was altruistic at heart. There were political machinations he had yet to consider, motivations he had not yet divined. The return of a different monarch to Earth’s throne would undoubtedly affect several policies in the tenuous alliance between Vulcan and Terran Empires. Spock could not make such decisions for his people without due consideration.

And he could not assume James Tiberius’ thoughts without spending more time with him.

There was that—or there was the meld.

Spock was not the only Vulcan who had employed that technique to his benefit before. In this instance, the individual in question had even given, however foolishly, his permission.

Technically, however, James Tiberius had suggested something more than a single meld. He had suggested a bond. Likewise, it had been an offer made without proper knowledge or understanding of the lasting effects such an action would entail. James Tiberius was not the only one for whom life would be irrevocably altered—both waking and sleeping. Their dreams would not be their own; their desires; their pain.

The effects of a meld, however, would fade.

It was a possibility. If conversation with James Tiberius continued to prove as aimless and inconclusive as ever, then it would become a necessity.

Spock considered the task ahead of him as well as the events preceding his present course. There had been one factor that refused to be classified on either side of the divide, as enemy or ally.

That was the way James Tiberius had fought.

He was compact, muscular, powerful—and rash, more dangerous to others because he was prepared to be dangerous to himself. The unpredictability of his actions had filled in the spaces between Spock’s precision in a way Spock could not have anticipated. Granted, Spock had not yet found need to anticipate that effect. He had worked alone for years. He had no scars like the one James Tiberius had shown him—toward what purpose, Spock also remained unclear.

What measure of human would decorate their most vulnerable spot of anatomy in red, as though the bravery of taunting fate was anything other than suicide?

The point remained that Prince James Tiberius Kirk was still alive, and he was currently on the other side of the door in front of which Spock stood: a massive, carved metal piece, flanked by two of the house’s most trusted guards.

Spock entered without announcement.

James Tiberius immediately moved from the far corner of the room to drape himself over the couch, gazing upward at Spock from under the shadow of his heavy brows and lighter lashes. ‘Couldn’t stay away, could you?’ he asked, and flashed Spock a crooked grin. ‘Let me guess—you couldn’t stop thinking about me. I’m under your skin.’

‘I have devoted some thought to your person, yes,’ Spock replied. James Tiberius allowed one knee to fall to the side, scuffed, black boot sliding along the floor, his legs parted. ‘The matter of your appearance—your arrival. Your motivations. Your history.’

‘Whether or not there’s documented madness in my family.’

Spock paused. ‘There was no mention of such.’

James Tiberius shifted his hips, arching the small of his back off the cushion beneath it. He had seen fit to put on a vest—which, in Spock’s opinion, did not fully qualify as a shirt—in the time they had been apart, and in the V formed by the front, Spock could see his bare skin, covered only by a faint sheen of sweat. He was attempting, however unsuccessfully, to continue his seductions.

‘Did I pass the background check?’ James Tiberius asked.

‘You can tell me what I need to know,’ Spock replied, ‘or I will learn it through more invasive measures.’

James Tiberius raised his eyebrows, leaning his head back from Spock in brief surprise. Even though it was clear he had centered his efforts on the task of romancing Spock, he was not immune to distraction. That was one of many small flaws in the human ability—or rather, inability—to maintain prolonged, unwavering concentration. James Tiberius would have benefited from a year’s worth of meditation, but it was not in Spock’s better interests to recommend ways for him to improve his already considerable talents.

‘Was that a threat?’ James Tiberius pursed his lips, which settled into a lazy grin. He drew his fingers over the open V-neck collar of his vest, wiping the faint sheen of sweat from his skin. ‘Or a promise?’

‘I am informing you of the facts so that you might make a properly informed decision.’ Indeed, much as Spock had already told James Tiberius that any attempt to distract him with sexual innuendo would be unsuccessful.

Then again, since the necessary information had only momentarily dissuaded him from that approach, perhaps James Tiberius was someone for whom facts had no bearing on his decision-making processes.

Another mark both for and against him.

‘Oh, is  _that_  what that is?’ If James Tiberius contorted his body at any more severe an angle than the one he was currently favoring, he would be looking at Spock from upside down on the couch. ‘Nice of you to give me a choice before you go rooting around inside my mind.’

Spock reflected upon what he had learned from his reading and understood that the erratic pattern of James Tiberius’ actions throughout the short history of his life demonstrated someone who followed his ‘gut’ more often than well-reasoned thought.

The match he had suggested outright was perhaps not as outlandish as Spock had first judged. Their respective strengths balanced one another in a way that Spock could appreciate on a purely analytical level.

‘There would be no “rooting around”, as you describe it,’ Spock said.

‘Yeah, but would I feel you in there?’ James Tiberius ran the pink tip of his tongue over the chapped swell of his lower lip. ‘Inside me—inside my head?’

‘You would be aware of my presence,’ Spock confirmed.

‘Then I don’t know what we’re waiting for,’ James Tiberius said. ‘Might as well get it over with.’

He sat up all at once, moving with the sudden, swift grace of a  _le-matya_  on the prowl. From what Spock had learned about James Tiberius, he would be disappointed by the comparison, preferring to think of himself as a warm-blooded creature.

Few in Spock’s experience deserved that metaphorical description, not even those who fell into the literal category.

But Spock’s judgment only went so far as the classification of potential allies and less obvious enemies. Beyond matters of trust and caution, he would not plumb the depths of another’s psyche for lack of any better application of his efforts.

He remained where he was, unaffected by James Tiberius’ tactic of sudden movements and unpredictable actions, which he had already given Spock ample opportunity to observe—and therefore for which Spock was already prepared.

Yet James Tiberius continued to exhibit his talent for extemporizing. He took Spock’s hand in one of his, flares of warmth through the calluses, which did not protect Spock against the raw heat of finger-to-finger contact. When James Tiberius drew Spock’s hand upward, Spock did not blink.

To blink would be to give James Tiberius the only opening he required to behave rashly. The guards just outside would display slightly less restraint than Spock, and this peculiar meeting would be over before they had the time to explore its full potential.

As Spock had just discovered, amidst the tangle of James Tiberius’ disorderly and emotive thoughts, he would not be displeased if they were to manage that exploration.

‘So you have to put your hand on my face, right?’ James Tiberius pressed Spock’s fingers, covered by his own, to the side of his jaw, Spock’s forefinger resting at the corner of James Tiberius’ mouth. Hot breath gusted over the tip. James Tiberius’ tongue had been in that very spot thirteen point five seconds earlier. The action was designed to broadcast powerful implication.

Suggestion was a weapon Spock could not remove from James Tiberius’ arsenal, as it was as much a part of him as his large hands, the tattooed ink on his chest, the knotted, pale scar tissue between the blades of his shoulders, more a part of him than the sweat on his flesh.

‘And then you lean a little closer,’ James Tiberius obliged by doing the same, as though this were a matter of compromise, and he was meant to meet Spock halfway, ‘and, I don’t know, gaze deep into my eyes while you slip inside of me…’

‘You conflate the meld with a sexual act,’ Spock replied.

James Tiberius flicked his tongue after Spock’s fingers. ‘Uh-huh. S’it working?’

‘Your definition of “working” appears to differ significantly from my own.’

‘But if you’re _not_ gonna pierce my thoughts,’ James Tiberius continued, believing himself unstoppable, ‘then maybe I could get you inside of me some other way.’

‘You have also underestimated the strength of Vulcan conviction.’

‘Believe me, Prince Spock, there’s _nothing_ about you I’ve underestimated—especially not your strength.’

‘We are likewise impervious to flattery.’

James Tiberius pursed his lips against the tip of Spock’s fore- and index-fingers, huffing softly on them. The heat was moist, quite unlike the dry air of Vulcan. The contrast was not unnoticeable. ‘Hmm. Mm. Mmhmm.’

‘Your motives,’ Spock reminded him.

James Tiberius drew Spock’s forefinger into his mouth with a light grazing of his teeth. ‘Should be obvious.’

‘Smokescreen aside, they are not,’ Spock said.

It took not insubstantial effort to refrain from reacting outwardly to the sudden, rough sensation of teeth against his smallest finger.

James Tiberius had also done his research.

If Spock were to react too quickly, it would only make it obvious that he had discovered a Vulcan vulnerability. As a representative for his race, Spock must preserve their impenetrability. He had assured his retainers that he could handle the interrogation without supervision; he was not in the habit of disproving a statement once issued.

‘That’s funny,’ James Tiberius said, ‘because most of the people I meet say I’m nothing  _but_  obvious.’

‘You are a great deal more than that,’ Spock said.

James Tiberius’ mouth twitched, tongue pulsing against the delicate pad of Spock’s finger. When he spoke, the vibrations passed from his voice to be felt by Spock’s touch.

‘Coming from you, that sounds like a compliment.’

‘I am merely stating the facts.’ Spock’s fingers were damp, but this was only a minor diversion and not enough to conquer. ‘If they sound complimentary, that is the interpretation you have chosen to bestow upon them; a matter of chance.’

James Tiberius touched the back of Spock’s wrist, lightly at first, tracing the shape of his bones and following the delicate green veinwork under his skin. He was growing impatient and therefore bolder with his advances. Either he did not believe Spock’s claims that such distractions would not be effective or he had more faith in his abilities than in Spock’s assurance to the contrary.

That way of thinking would lead only to disappointment, but it was not for Spock to warn him of his misstep.  He had already attempted, in his own way, to do so. Anything further would have been too generous.

‘I thought Vulcans didn’t believe in chance,’ James Tiberius said.

‘We do not believe in  _luck_ ,’ Spock clarified. ‘There is an element of chance in every situation that cannot be predicted to more exacting odds.’

There was a flash of something—amusement, it seemed—that passed across James Tiberius’ features and bolted, warm, through Spock’s mind. It was colored by a loneliness that Spock could not parse, a distant longing for companionship that had existed once and been lost piece by stubborn piece.

They were not feelings for Spock.

‘Your brother,’ Spock said.

James Tiberius dug his heel into the floor, pushing himself slightly backward. Spock’s finger slipped to the corner of his mouth, tracing a line of saliva over his chin where it was in need of shaving.

For the first time, and entirely by accident, Spock had set James Tiberius on the retreat. That was a point of interest.

Not for the first time, James Tiberius had managed to incite his curiosity.

‘What about him?’ James Tiberius tilted his chin at an angle, attempting to appear casual. With Spock’s hand still resting at his jaw, the pretense was a pale shadow. It hid nothing.

‘You care for him.’

‘He’s my brother. You have one of those yourself, don’t you?’

‘My brother is not the subject at hand.’

James Tiberius laughed, turning the gust of air to Spock’s palm in another attempt to reclaim a measure of control. ‘Literally at hand,’ he explained. ‘Though, if you have to explain the joke—’

‘Your brother,’ Spock repeated.

To his minor credit, James Tiberius did not react as Spock had done when he had struck a similarly deep nerve with the mention of a family member. The struggle with which he was faced was not visible, but it was tangible. Spock cupped his jaw, holding his face, rather than being held in place by the suck and pull of James Tiberius’ mouth, his tongue, his teeth. ‘My brother,’ he repeated.

His voice was even, but his pulse was not.

‘You offered your allegiance with the intent to gain my support in return—for the sake of this missing brother, the Prince George Samuel.’

‘Sure.’ James Tiberius shrugged loosely, wincing when he jostled his healing shoulder. No medical attention had been provided to him; he was bruised, but no longer dirty, having availed himself of the sonic shower in his glorified holding cell. He had not yet learned how to use his pain as a shield, to confuse Spock’s senses completely with a distracting, more powerful sensation to chase as a decoy. ‘Why not?’

‘Altruism,’ Spock replied, ‘has no place in these times.’

‘You’ve got power.’ James Tiberius touched Spock’s chest and Spock allowed it; as long as his hands were immediately visible, Spock could keep an eye on them without expending excessive resources to the task. ‘You’ve got loyal followers; you’re _definitely_ attractive; our two empires aren’t officially enemies… I was struck with inspiration.’

‘Your gambit will fail,’ Spock said. ‘You cannot gain trust without offering trust.’

‘You could teach me,’ James Tiberius suggested.

‘You deflect.’

‘So do you.’

Spock raised a brow. ‘In what manner?’

‘Every time _I_ start to get close, _you_ change the subject,’ James Tiberius replied.

‘Every time I inquire after your motives, you make advances,’ Spock said.

‘Takes two to tango.’

‘This is no dance.’

‘We fought pretty well together. That’s all I’m saying.’ James Tiberius had succeeded, Spock realized too late, in placing enough distance between himself and his momentary lapse in pretense that he had rebuilt his defenses. Spock would not be able to achieve success with the same tactic a second time. ‘We’d be even better if we fought as one. No one could stand against us. ‘

‘And you could not stand against me, were I to meld with you. I would see everything.’ Spock bore down upon him; for the second time in as many days, he had backed James Tiberius against a couch and pressed him into it, an ostentatious exertion of brute, physical force he did not prefer to utilize. ‘No fear, no desire, no errant thought would go undiscovered. No secret would remain. I would know you, James Tiberius Kirk, as even you do not know yourself. Why you are here—and where you came from. Every private moment you have shared with your lost brother; every private moment you have ever kept to yourself.’

James Tiberius’ eyes widened. Were Spock the type prone to comparison, he would have likened them to twin blue spheres, which mimicked the shape and coloration of his planet suspended in orbit. Earth’s many oceans contained a wealth of shades, but so did James Tiberius’ eyes. While unguarded, he was far more appealing than in any of the moments he had attempted to entice Spock into a sexual encounter. The tension of his mouth was slack, lips half-parted while he drew in a breath. His hand on the sofa tightened, creasing the cushions under his fingers.

‘Jesus, Spock.  _That_  wasn’t in the guidebooks.’

‘There are no such things,’ Spock pointed out.

‘Right now,’ James Tiberius countered. ‘I could write the first one. Or, at least, after we’re through here.’

‘You are working effectively to make certain we are  _through_   _here_  before anything has even begun,’ Spock said.

James Tiberius squirmed under Spock’s weight, the sinewy muscle of his torso twisting beneath Spock’s capable hold. It was not possible to tell, within an acceptable margin of error, whether he was attempting in earnest to free himself or whether he was drawing purposeful attention to the finer details of his captivity.

From what Spock had both learned and observed, James Tiberius was capable of more than one correct interpretation simultaneously. Any sincerity had been outweighed by his capacity for deception thus far, but one did not necessarily discount the other entirely.

Humans were complex individuals. It was not enough to attribute one trait to a man and then move on.

It would be the easy path to take, but Spock had never been drawn to the simple things in life.

‘Trust cannot be taught,’ Spock informed him. ‘It must be discovered through personal introspection. Therefore, the definition is in flux. It depends upon the individual.’

‘Wow,’ James Tiberius said. ‘That sounds like something out of a fortune cookie, Spock. You practicing for a second career?’

‘You are not ready for the bond you have requested,’ Spock said. ‘Were I your brother, I would not count on rescue anytime soon.’

Brief, stormy emotion once more clouded James Tiberius’ features, sharpening the broad handsomeness of his face into harder lines. It was akin to the flash of anger Spock had felt when James Tiberius mentioned his mother.

Family, it seemed, was their common vulnerability.

‘Would  _you_ trust you?’ James Tiberius asked.

It did not seem to be a facetious inquiry. He was questioning in earnest, which might have been the first step in the long climb toward achieving some kind of working confidence in one another.

The potential, then, was not without all merit. There was promise to be found in an individual so determined, of such conviction, and so capable that he had managed to place himself in the precise position he had intended—in an empire that was not his own, on a planet where the very air was against him. Reckless madness was one thing, but it was not close to brilliance as so many wrongfully believed. James Tiberius had not lost his life, and as Vulcans did not attribute success or failure to the whims of ‘luck’, there was assuredly talent and tenacity behind James Tiberius’ strategies to date.

‘I would not,’ Spock replied. ‘Neither would I demand the establishment of a bond with a stranger—especially as there is no “guidebook”.’

‘Got your attention, though.’

‘Not all attention is favorable.’

‘Aside from the time you popped my shoulder out of its socket, things’ve been pretty favorable from my end.’

‘That may be attributed to the fact that the Alliance assassins were not sent to take your life.’

‘No,’ James Tiberius said, brief shadows further darkening his bruises, ‘but they _did_ take my brother.’

It proved a moment of uncharacteristic exposure. James Tiberius’ lips had parted. If it was another stratagem, it was more successful than the others—a simulacrum of vulnerability he had not yet managed to replicate with such accuracy.

‘You wanna know about it?’ James Tiberius’ voice was harsher, rougher than it had been even when they were sparring on the sands. ‘If that’s what you need, then it’s all yours. Your mind to my mind, right? Why I’m here and where I came from. No secret left. Every private moment. Everything.’

One of James Tiberius’ hands—the one that was not braced on the couch upholstery beneath his weight—was free. It had been an oversight. Perhaps the tumult of James Tiberius’ numerous, unchecked emotions had taken a negative toll on Spock’s customary vigilance. Nevertheless, it had given James Tiberius the opening to take Spock by the wrist, to drag Spock’s hand to cup his face.

James Tiberius’ skin was warm and the pulse at his temple raced. He was uneven breath and a skipped heartbeat.Then, as Spock aligned his fingers and pressed into his meld points, he was pain and betrayal, loss and fatigue, the unhealed spaces between his scars. He was the ache in his shoulder and the scrapes, the bruises, he’d collected along the way. At the center, nagging, gnawing, was the absence of his brother—a missed step on a dark stair; a sudden loss of gravity when a ship’s life-support malfunctioned; a silence where there should have been an echo. Loneliness, in a meld, was more profound than rage, more complete than love, louder than grief.

Spock pulled away. James Tiberius was panting; even Spock required a moment of recovery.

‘Couldn’t take the anticipation anymore,’ James Tiberius rasped. ‘All that “will we, won’t we”… No time for it.’

He had acted impulsively in order to maintain the illusion of control over an event that demanded he relinquish all semblance of it.

From the darkened shade of his eyes under his knotted brow, he knew that it was a pleasant lie he had told himself.

Spock curled his fingers in toward his palm, straightening and tucking both hands behind his back.

‘So.’ Jim chuckled hoarsely. ‘Now you’ve been inside me.’

‘That is a purposefully oblique term for what has just occurred,’ Spock said. His fingertips brushed dry against the skin of his palms, cool and unreceptive to his own buried emotions.

‘Gimme a break.’ James Tiberius rubbed a hand over his face, as though there were anything left to conceal. ‘I’m making it up as I go, here.’ He peered at Spock through his fingers, one bright blue eye exposed to the light. ‘But I guess you already knew that.’

‘No secrets left,’ Spock reminded him. ‘Every private moment…’

It was not in his nature to repeat himself, even in the company of a less cerebral partner, but Spock had read that humans found the act of echoing key phrases a comforting reassurance. James Tiberius seemed that he was in need of more than a moment’s recovery.

The damage done to him by his brother’s absence was deserving of a basic modicum of courtesy. Spock’s guards were outside. There was no one to observe him allowing a silence to pass unexploited. Spock resisted the urge to stand and distance himself, keeping his hands locked behind his back, one hand locked around the opposite wrist.

James Tiberius groaned, readjusting his long leg legs to stretch one across Spock’s lap. His boots were dusty and scuffed with old age.

Another display of sentimentality. It was not in accordance with what Spock had been taught to expect from a figurehead of the Terran Empire.

‘When you put it like that, you make me sound like a real idiot.’

‘Consider how circumstances must have aligned to create that perception,’ Spock replied.

James Tiberius squeezed his waist between his legs, a half-hearted attempt at a hold Spock had seen him exhibit on one of the assassins from last night.

‘Was that sarcasm in the face of my little breakdown?’

Spock had resolved to give James Tiberius his space, but there was no call to gentle his approach or his demeanor. Coddling reflected poorly on everyone.

‘Your feelings for your brother are genuine, as is your resolve to help him,’ Spock replied.

James Tiberius yawned, an act to veil the true emotions passing over his face. ‘You don’t actually think you’re telling me something I didn’t already know, do you?’

‘I am telling you that I have verified your claims beyond the shadow of a doubt, which is the assurance a Vulcan would require before entering into a partnership with an unknown agent.’

‘So you’re finally ready to say “I do”, Prince Spock?’

‘Were your questions better phrased, you would gather more valuable answers,’ Spock said. ‘The fact remains that I have seen you, James Tiberius, and likely more of you than you believed yourself prepared to show even as you offered yourself to me so openly. Nevertheless, at present, our enemy is one and the same, and therefore our interests are aligned. We will spar again tomorrow.’

Spock removed James Tiberius’ legs from his lap, scuffed boots clipping the ground with a muted thump. When James Tiberius stared up after him, he offered no artifice. He was young and bruised and defiant—but he was also keenly aware of his position, and that in the moment, the low ground he had claimed could not be interpreted as an advantage in disguise.

Fascinating that the revelation of his youth on full display should prove more earnest and mature than any of his pretenses of the same had managed.

‘Since it means you don’t intend to have your operatives slit my throat in the night,’ James Tiberius replied, ‘I look forward to it, Spock.’

‘It may be illuminating,’ Spock agreed.

*


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Double-edged meld.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite computer and internet woes, here is the thing!
> 
> Also gaze upon the gorgeousness of the amazing art drawn by [quintotriticale](http://quintotriticale.tumblr.com/post/79631424103/guys-spicyshimmys-new-mirrorverse-prince-au) on tumblr for the previous part!

The night spent in captivity wasn’t Jim’s first; he doubted it’d be his last. Unlike previous rounds in similar circumstances, he managed a few hours of sleep even he had to admit he needed, and woke sweating after the usual collection of addled, urgent dreams assaulted him.

Sam was there in all of them. His presence only served to underscore his absence afterward, this time with the added angle of someone else knowing what the hell that was like.

Like hell.

 _Spock_. Now that’d been a desperate, bold, insanely stupid gambit. Letting a Vulcan meld with him—Jim hadn’t been prepared for it.

But if he’d waited until he was, that would’ve been wasting time Sam didn’t have. So he’d done what he always did: what he’d had to.

A Vulcan, inside his head. Only it was more than that; it wasn’t just his head but his throat and chest, his lungs and his gut, the realization that the mind was connected to every other intimate organ, that it ran parallel with whatever existed in a person as their soul.

So Jim was sweaty, messed up, lightyears from home, and he had no way of knowing if he’d left the same kind of mark on Spock as Spock had left on him.

Then again, he’d known from the start he was gambling, entering the game with limited aces up his sleeves. He couldn’t send the same nightmares Spock’s way, so he had to settle for getting into his head any other way he could.

Vulcans had their methods, but that didn’t mean humans didn’t have a few tricks of their own.

The sonic shower the next morning was a cold blast and provided the focus Jim needed to prepare himself—followed by stretches, pacing, and reciting his favorite passages from the books in George Kirk’s boarded-up study that’d been trashed the first time Jim snuck in, some of the pages torn from their binding. Even the historical volumes read like fantasies.

Then, Jim draped himself on the couch with his vest open all the way, tucked his head into the crook of his arm, and mustered enough energy not to look tired and small and easily breakable, the way Spock must’ve been thinking about him, all things considered.

Sam was going to laugh someday when he found out about the lengths Jim had gone to just to wiggle him free from the clutches of the Alliance. It would make for a good story once the dust settled. Jim’s sex appeal wasn’t always at the top on the list of skills that recommended him as a valued asset to Earth, but it was serving him well enough here.

He’d done his research. Prince Spock was brilliant but perpetually solitary. Alone didn’t always translate to  _lonely_ , but in Jim’s experience, the kind of stimulation he could offer often jolted people into the realization that they were, in fact, desperately lonely.

And he was the only cure.

So far, his success with Spock had been limited. But he’d only been working him a short time now.

The weather hadn’t needed much of a window to creep up on Jim and ruin him, though. The sooner they worked out the details of their undertaking, the sooner they could shove off from Vulcan. Jim was looking forward to the vacuum of space; at least artificially generated atmospheres wouldn’t weigh on him like a pair of thirty pound free weights.

On top of that, Vulcans didn’t even sweat. That was one of those things that Jim couldn’t understand in the hypothetical until he dropped about ten pounds in water weight his first night planet-side.

It was just as well he ruined his clothes. They weren’t going to fit him after sparring with the prince of Vulcan.

Sam wasn’t even going to recognize him by the time they got him back.

Then again, if  _Jim_  was the one who’d been changed more by their time apart, then they’d both be lucky. Sam didn’t have the kind of face that could take a scar or two the way Jim did. Less meat on his bones.

By the time Prince Spock showed up, Jim had already worked up a fine sheen of fresh sweat all over. The vest he’d picked up was forgiving, but he might as well not have even bothered with the shower.

‘Hi there.’ Jim shifted, rolling his muscles under the open fall of his vest. ‘Sorry I had to get so...rough with you. You all recovered after your mental romp through the fertile gardens of my mind?’

‘That is not how I would describe it.’

Standing over Jim, Spock looked about a hundred feet tall, dressed in simple, draped blacks that made Jim break out in a heat rash on sight alone.

The next time—if there was a next time—Jim was going to share some of the heat’s impact on him, blistering and sticky and mind-numbing, a constant distraction with no sign of mercy in sight. If Spock could still wear heavy, knit blacks after experiencing that meld, then he was invincible.

Something told Jim he wasn’t invincible.

After all, there was still the matter of Spock’s mother. As far as Sam was concerned, and he’d passed those ethics on to Jim for better or worse, there were certain lows you couldn’t allow yourself to stoop to, certain lines you couldn’t let yourself cross. Some things were off limits and mothers, when they weren’t the kind who sat on a throne and signed the command to fire on unarmed citizens, were on the list.

But there was more to learn about that yet, and knowledge was a kind of power. Jim would have to look into the matter when he had the chance.

In the meantime, he had to resign himself to the crippling heat as he walked behind Spock, then to another afternoon of dislocated joints and bloody lips and sand in places he’d planned on sharing with Spock, not the entire desert.

Chances were, the sand was gentler.

Jim grinned, an expression that shielded him from a dry, stinging wind.

In the sparring arena, in the depressingly ineffective shade from the high stone walls boxing them in, Spock removed his robes and Jim stripped to the waist. They circled one another. Jim kept grinning.

‘You sure like making me wait for it,’ he said.

Spock’s brow rose, but he was as distant, as unreadable as ever.

This time, when they began, Jim twisted his wrist loose of its socket to pin one of Spock’s arms behind his back; he threw sand in Spock’s face and used one of Spock’s sweaters against him, flicking him in the eyes with the soft but no less blinding hems; and, when he was at last on his back, Spock’s knees braced on either side of his hips, he ran his thumb along the inside of Spock’s palm and thought purposefully about every shade of heat he was now all-too familiar with.

The sun baking the sand; the sun baking Jim’s skin; the sweat between his skin and leather; the electric body-to-body heat from the space where Jim’s hips were flush against Spock’s thigh—if Jim was lucky, and sometimes he was, he’d buy himself a second or two with the onslaught, giving Spock full sensory overload.

He threw more sand, then found himself face-down and eating a mouthful, Spock’s knee in the small of his back.

Spock had said it wasn’t anything like a dance, but he was wrong about that this time. It wasn’t just Jim’s imagination; they were more connected than they had been yesterday, more attuned to each other’s movements.  Forearms connected, dodges predicted, never a blow thrown that wasn’t caught. All the good stuff, which ended with Jim breathless and pinned, sand crusting his forehead, sweat beading the back of his neck.

He spat onto the ground. Spock flipped him over, pressing his fingertips to Jim’s cheekbone, his jaw. Jim’s chest shuddered and he braced himself, ready to flood his thoughts with something that didn’t make him feel completely naked.

At least, not in the raw, easy-to-read way.

‘Imagine how good it’d be if we _were_ connected,’ he said.

Some people liked a voice when it was hoarse, cracking; it reminded them of sex.

Spock probably wasn’t one of those people.

‘You would be better served by knowing when to concede defeat,’ Spock said, ‘rather than making overtures to which you know there must be no reply.’

‘I didn’t know you guys were—were trained psychiatrists on top of being master assassins.’ Jim gasped, tonguing a few grains of sand out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Next thing I know, you’re gonna be writing me a diagnosis.’

If he was going to learn something, he’d rather gain the knowledge firsthand. There was a pun somewhere in there, something to do with Spock’s hands on him first. Jim laughed, though it came out as a strained puff of air.

A lesser man might’ve called it a wheeze.

‘You are fortunate my training has proven so extensive.’ Spock’s fingers pressed more firmly against Jim’s cheek. ‘Any less care in my approach would leave your mind broken.’

There was no telltale twitch in Spock’s facial muscles, no sign that he was feeling anything at all from the intergalactic broadcasting satellite he’d turned Jim’s brain into, tuned to Spock’s frequency.

If he was going to read someone’s mind, it seemed like the polite thing to do would be to react at least a little visibly.

Or he could let up with his knee on Jim’s chest and let him suck in the thin air before he passed out. His breath hissed through his teeth; it made him sound like one of those mountain lizards he’d dodged on his way to Spock’s palace.

‘Seems to me you prefer breaking me down physically,’ Jim said.

Spock raised his eyebrow and Jim felt a slight pinch of blunt fingernails against the soft skin of his cheek and around the socket of his eye. He felt abruptly dizzy, though there was no telling if that was the heat or the residual effects of their mind meld.

If they bonded, would that lightheadedness be a permanent fixture?

He was tempted. If he’d thought Spock would give him a straight answer, he might’ve asked.

‘You believe this is some manner of test,’ Spock said. ‘That I am assessing your skills by putting you through a series of physical ordeals.’

‘Well, what else would it be?’ Jim asked. ‘Unless you’re finally falling prey to my masculine wiles.’

Spock’s silence made it clear how far from the mark Jim was.

‘Don’t be so sure,’ Jim said.

‘I am attempting to educate you on the rigors of the undertaking you have proposed,’ Spock replied. ‘I would not risk all without being assured of a venture’s fortitude.’

Jim hooked one of his legs around the back of Spock’s calf, managing to lever their bodies over and around before the burning sand could permanently brand his back.

He was already as red as fresh clay, but with enough stubbornness, the pain and the dizziness and the heat were shed like a second skin. Or Jim could’ve been hallucinating. Spock’s hand was still on Jim’s face, but now Spock was below him, and Jim had to assume there wasn’t much Spock could pick up on through the haze of his potential mental break with reality.

There had to be a decent strategy in that somewhere.

Spock blinked. His dark eyes clouded. Jim panted over him, fighting his way through darkness to stay conscious.

To prove a point.

The venture’s fortitude. _His_ fortitude. It was on the line, and so was Sam’s life, and if Spock needed to know how serious Jim was—that centered him, a form of gravity he’d missed ever since he’d left earth. Jim’s eyes stung, but they were open.

Spock’s eyes returned to their usual, sharp focus. They were a cool oasis in the desert, although Jim knew them better than that, how quickly they could burn.

Just like Jim’s shoulders.

‘Just because you read my mind one time,’ Jim said, ‘doesn’t mean you can judge me.’

‘Fascinating,’ Spock replied.

It must’ve been his favorite word—but it was better than his other choices, like _sticky_ or _disgusting_ or _stop sweating on me_.

Jim’s grin was crooked and loose. ‘If you’re done testing my limits and figuring out I don’t have any, I’m pretty sure it’s about time for lunch.’

He didn’t remember the walk back to the palace; all he needed to know was that he stayed on his feet and that his knees didn’t buckle even once. Spock’s guards filtered in and out of his peripheral vision, no doubt figuring Jim didn’t pose much of a threat in his condition—thinking he was some kind of eccentricity, a pet their prince was keeping around for the sake of entertainment. Maybe there was more to that assessment than Jim wanted to admit, but he’d succeeded at being a point of fascination.

That alone was a triumph.

The cool interior halls with their architectural feats of ventilation made Jim’s skin tingle. Hard to look a prince in the eye and lick your lips when all the burned skin on your shoulders was peeling off, but Jim had done more with less in the past.

The rest was a beige blur. Even Jim’s eyes were sweating now.

Inside his holding chambers, water was waiting. Jim grabbed the pitcher, not the cup, and drank directly from the uneven lip, water running down his chin and throat. If Spock decided to watch the spectacle, that was his decision.

Finally, close to drowning, Jim wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘Thirsty?’ he asked.

‘I am not,’ Spock replied.

For somebody who’d been inside Jim already, he was still too damn formal. ‘So, did I pass?’ Jim asked.

‘If you are referring to this “test”, consider it cumulative and ongoing,’ Spock replied.

Something shifted in Jim’s periphery; it couldn’t be a guard, since they’d remained outside, and it wasn’t a curtain, because the windows were high and narrow, offering no opportunity for someone of Jim’s size to escape.

Jim acted before thinking—before his arms could remember how tired they were. The pitcher in his hand shattered the moment it connected with the cloaked, masked figure that had emerged from behind the couch, cracking over the side of their head.

Then, also without thinking, Jim ducked. He almost didn’t know why, until Spock stepped in smoothly to take his place.

‘Our minds,’ Spock said, pushing aside black scarves to begin the meld, ‘are one.’

Goosebumps rippled across Jim’s skin, making him shiver under his burn. Somehow, the words sounded different when they weren’t directed his way.

Spock’s long fingers formed a pale, geometric prison over the black scarves still concealing their attacker’s face. Jim couldn’t judge from their build alone what they were—only what they weren’t. They didn’t have the height and breadth of a Klingon body.

He heard the assassin gasp as Jim kicked an ottoman aside for Spock to back him into the nearest wall, but it had nothing to do with the clatter of furniture and everything to do with the silence that followed. The shattered remains of the pitcher were still in Jim’s hand. It was heavy, but he held on anyway, looming in the background should their attacker be stupid enough to try anything with Spock’s hands on him like that.

‘Tell him if _three_ couldn’t take us down, one’s wishful thinking,’ Jim said.

The weariness in his muscles had vanished when dosed with the latest surge of adrenaline. Every nerve ending under his skin hummed to life, blood pounding with the urge to ask about Sam.

He wasn’t stupid enough to let his one weakness slip when they’d just gained the upper hand. But Jim was getting pretty tired of Spock and his tests, toying with him like a  _sehlat_  and its prey. The sparring was hot—both literally and figuratively—but every second they hung around on Vulcan was a second Sam could be slipping out of Jim’s reach for good.

He’d gone out on a limb coming here. The risk was only worth it if it came to something.

‘This was a warning.’ Spock’s voice was distant, distracted. ‘It was not an attempt on our lives. Our deaths would be fortuitous, but they were not predicted.’

‘At least they’re managing their expectations better,’ Jim said.

‘Indeed,’ Spock said. ‘It would ease my mind to know exactly who  _they_ are.’

‘You’re taking this pretty personally,’ Jim said.

Spock tightened his hold and the assassin’s body jerked stiff, flexed fingers splayed at the ends of outstretched arms.

‘It is my home that is being assaulted. I would care to know how to place the proper blame.’

There were rumors, unsubstantiated mostly, that the Romulans were working in concert with other species from their quadrant to create fresh alliances within their existing treaty with the Klingons. That was all the information Jim needed to know to predict they weren’t planning for the long haul.

The Alliance was an arrangement of convenience, formed to knock the Terran Empire off its pedestal. Once that was accomplished, it would no doubt dissolve in on itself, starting another conflict to stretch across the galaxy.

As far as temporary successes went, it was a decent strategy—especially because it didn’t have to struggle with the difficulties presented when you were trying to achieve sustainability. They struck and retreated without order or precision, but they still managed to wreak havoc on Empire territory, especially those holdings nearest to the Hostile Zone. They weren’t looking to build upon a solid foundation but shatter what had been built already.

To the victor went the spoils.

Literally.

The attacker slumped, unconscious, sliding between the ottoman and the wall, folded up like a pile of carelessly shed clothing.

‘They seek to ascertain whether or not the rumors of a new alliance between human and Vulcan powers are true.’ Spock had already returned his hands to that spot in the small of his back, the right clasping his left wrist. Jim knew better than to think that they were any less dangerous when hidden from sight. Spock moved more quickly than his stillness suggested. One wrong move and he could turn you into a kid’s lost stuffed animal.

‘Huh. Guess we’ve got ‘em worried.’

‘Knowledge is the beginning of power,’ Spock replied, ‘just as logic is a means to functional wisdom. The Alliance’s quest for knowledge is indicative merely of their desire for power—for their power to continue.’

‘And that’s all you got out of…’ Jim peeled away the scarves, pushing them down over a slack mouth, then up over a ridged forehead. Another Romulan, though Jim had learned that almost everyone looked the same when broken and passed out. ‘…our new friend here?’

‘A pawn knows nothing of the next move in the game.’

‘Chess metaphors now, huh? Just great.’

Strange, though, that the Romulan was still breathing. As far as Jim had seen, ruthlessness didn’t come in degrees. An enemy was dispatched of before they could do the same.

It was only logical.

Jim rubbed out the cramp in his knuckles and the throbbing of his wrist, which was already beginning to swell. The flesh was tender but it wasn’t important; the idea that the Alliance might be aware of them as a threat already was what mattered.

‘Still,’ Jim added, ‘with the Klingons and the Romulans taking such special interest in our business… All I’m saying is, it’d be a pity to disappoint them.’

‘Disappoint them,’ Spock repeated.

‘By not living up to their expectations,’ Jim said. ‘By not exceeding them. And we could exceed them. Send this fact-finder back, with a few ideas planted in his head, let the game-players think we can’t even take care of a single pawn…’

This time, Spock’s silence suggested intrigue. Jim could still picture the way his lips formed the word fascinating.

‘Lull ‘em into a false sense of security. Make them think we’re just having some…’ Jim took a step closer. ‘Having some fun together. Distracted by each other’s company. That they don’t have to pay any attention to this at all, because it’s about nothing but immediate satisfaction. And then, when their defenses are down, their attention somewhere else…’

There it was—the spark of heat behind Spock’s cool, dark eyes. Jim’s wrist wasn’t the only thing throbbing. His split lip stung and he sucked the crack where blood beaded until it was safely numb.

‘Cumulative,’ Jim continued. ‘I know, I know; I’m still taking the test.’

‘You are unpredictable,’ Spock said.

‘Tell me something I don’t know.’ Jim’s fingers were all still working, the tendons twitching beneath the sore pulse of his wrist. He was going to need medical attention, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle on his own with a regenerator and a few quiet moments to himself.

‘Your approach to even the most basic of tasks is so erratic as to be almost impossible to anticipate,’ Spock continued. The heat in his eyes didn’t fade, but muted to a lower flame—probably dulled, or at the very least confused, by considering the various eccentricities that made up Jim’s character. ‘It is a strategy I had not considered.’

‘Well, that just goes to show you why you  _need_  me.’ Jim needed to keep his wrist above heart level, so it made sense to reach up, brushing his fingers against the harsh curve of Spock’s jaw. ‘I can come up with all kinds of things, Spock. Things you’d never dream of.’

‘I believe I am sensing some of those things right now.’

Spock’s hand seized his wrist and Jim sucked in a gasp, unable to compensate quickly enough for the sudden burst of pain that bloomed in the sprain under Spock’s superhuman grip. He felt his face crumple, biting hard at the inside of his cheek to keep from chomping down on his lip.

It took Spock a half-second past that to release Jim. He must’ve been given an unwelcome peek into the pain he was causing. The double-edged sword of touch telepathy. Jim breathed in hard through his nose, keeping his wrist elevated for a second longer, just so it wouldn’t look like he was jerking out of Spock’s hold.

He had appearances to keep up, after all. If he was still being tested, then he was still being evaluated for Sam’s rescue. He couldn’t afford to fall to pieces over something as small and inconsequential as his wrist potentially being in pieces.

‘You know,  _Klingons_  go for a little face-biting before they mate.’ Jim’s voice came out hoarse. Despite the presence of an unconscious body on the floor and the pounding of sprained muscles here and there, he could still muster up some allure. ‘But if screwing with my joints is more your style, I can work with that.’

He cast his eyes to the floor, then back at Spock, as if to remind him exactly what it was they were working for.

‘That was not intentional,’ Spock said.

‘It was intentional earlier.’

‘Not entirely.’

Jim could still move his fingers. Nothing was purple. He’d had worse just roughhousing with Sam, but that’d been years ago, Sam teaching him how to duck and weave, and to save hitting below the belt for the times it really counted. Jim had wound up bruised and bloody and, yeah, sometimes even sunburnt, but he’d never had to look over his shoulder when Sam was at his back. For a time, he’d even believed that was how all brothers were.

He shook out the pain and forged on.

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Indeed. Your unpredictable actions caused the injury. Mine had been calculated to another effect. Had you behaved as any other would have in your position, you would not have sustained lasting injury.’

‘You were…’ Jim bit the inside of his cheek again to keep his voice steady. ‘You’re saying you were only toying with me.’

‘You yourself appear to have a healthy appetite for…play.’

‘I was fighting seriously.’

‘As was I,’ Spock replied, ‘but perhaps it was in a manner different from your definition of the same.’

‘Can’t keep your eyes off me, huh?’

‘You are not inconspicuous here.’

Jim already had his next parry prepared when Spock crossed the new distance between them and took Jim’s hand. His fingertips were cool, even though his eyes were hot. Jim felt feverish, but that could’ve been the sunstroke talking.

‘Of course, I wouldn’t mind being your toy,’ Jim said, but it was obvious his heart wasn’t in the charade. Spock’s eyes darkened; Jim’s pain lessened. They were sharing it, small as it was, as far from deadly as wounds got in this part of the galaxy. Or any part of any galaxy, for that matter. Spock’s fingers could give pain and they could take it away and Jim had been staring at them for too long now, even if Spock’s eyes were elsewhere, his jaw tight.

‘You will require a regenerator,’ Spock said at last.

‘Not exactly the kind of toy I was talking about.’

‘I will have one sent to this room,’ Spock said. ‘You will be able to attend to the injury yourself, without relying upon the uncertain loyalties of the nearest doctor with sufficient knowledge of human anatomy.’

‘So I’ll be in top form for tomorrow’s little sparring date, right?’ Jim covered the skin on his wrist that Spock had been holding, fitting his blunt fingers where Spock’s slim ones had rested. ‘Wouldn’t want me handicapped right at the start.’

‘Indeed,’ Spock repeated.

‘So much for striking the Alliance while the iron’s hot,’ Jim added.

Spock left without so much as a gesture at the niceties, not even a cleared throat to act as a goodbye. Without him in the room, the door shut, the massive guards stationed the other side, the unconscious assassin removed, the temperature of the room hadn’t changed—but it sure as hell felt like it. The only trouble was, Jim had no idea whether this was what it felt like to breathe easier, or if he’d forgotten how to already.

*


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Check without mate!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [insomniaticfrenchtoast](http://insomniaticfrenchtoast.tumblr.com) on tumblr drew some art of the princes sparring and I am in love!
> 
> Sorry for the delay in posting--work and computer issues made it impossible to implement beta corrections and post. I'll do my best to have the next part up in three days, though! THANK YOU FOR BEARING with me!

James Tiberius was not the only one who could exploit the element of surprise. Spock allowed him ample time with the regenerator to restore his wrist to order and see to his burns, then entered his room long before the morning when James Tiberius was, by his own admission, expecting him.

It would not do for Jim, as he preferred to be called, to become complacent. Spock would not refer to him with the familiarity for which he had angled from the beginning; someone had to maintain a sense of perspective and distance between them, however artificial. Yet it was clear to Spock now, as it had not been earlier, that Jim was suffering from a lack of clarity regarding the circumstances that surrounded his brother’s kidnapping.

Contemplating George Samuel’s captivity had made him scattered, unfocused. There was a rage within him that Spock had tapped into but not yet managed to tear free from its roots.

He was impatient, anxious to depart so that he could throw himself bodily at the nearest Klingon or Romulan agent, who would act as tangible representatives of his distress. From what Spock had observed of Jim in action, he did not seem to care whether it he or his enemy who sustained the most bodily damage, as long as he was still standing in the end.

Spock could not consider risking his own life on a scheme with someone so untrained.

In Jim’s room, the curtains were drawn tightly, heavy drapery making the air still and warm. It betrayed a misguided attempt at keeping the temperature down, demonstrating a basic lack of knowledge regarding Vulcan’s changeable climate. He would have been better served by allowing the night winds to sweep through his room, leaving space for something to stir the shadows and, however briefly, banish the heat.

But Jim was asleep, and not in a position to receive a rebuke from anyone, much less Spock.

Unconscious, his posture held none of the studied ease he had been careful to display in front of Spock. Even in the dark, faint starlight creeping in through a sliver in the drapes, Spock could see that he was rigid: his knees drawn up to his chest; his hands clenched into fists against some unseen assault. His breathing came in short, uneven gasps.

In sleep, he could not calculate what disguise to wear in front of Spock. There was only the truth as it existed beneath the surface, more regularly kept hidden in his unconscious mind. It was not unlike catching a glimpse of what Spock was able to see only in a mind meld, Jim’s frustration and rage twisted across his features.

If he believed himself ready to take on the Alliance, then he was convincing no one. Except, possibly, his own fractured psyche.

Spock crossed the room quickly and silently. When he touched Jim’s shoulder, his eyes snapped open, lifting his pillow to slam it into Spock’s jaw from below.

Spock bore the blow without a flinch. As weapons went, this was Jim’s least effective choice to date. The most it offered was a pale, faint cloud of dust, while Spock’s center held fast against that which would have startled anyone possessed of lesser restraint.

‘Had I been an assassin, you would no longer be breathing,’ he said.

‘And if you’d woken me up a different way, your pillow’d still have its stuffing,’ Jim replied.

He had rallied, an act for which he had displayed an aptitude in the past. His lips were parted, that sheen of sweat on his brow causing his hair to curl. He was also still gripping the pillow, as though he did not know how to relinquish that which he had in his grasp—as though he could not anticipate when his hands would again be full.

‘You are unprepared for the undertaking you have proposed,’ Spock said.

Jim snorted, wiping the corner of his eye with his wrist. The regenerator had been used, then, and to its full potential. His instinct for self-preservation was erratic at best, but in this instance, Spock had not been disappointed. ‘You always wake people up in the middle of the night to talk business?’

‘When that business is expedient.’

Jim mouthed the word ‘expedient’ without making a sound. Once more, he sought to draw Spock’s attention to that which he believed were his finer, more attractive features.

‘It was also my understanding that expedience has been your prime motivation thus far,’ Spock continued, ‘regardless of common sense or caution. You believe that you may best aid your brother by acting at once, that time is of the essence. Yet you will only do him a disservice by wasting your potential on an ill-conceived rescue.’

Jim’s eyes were cautious rather than suggestive. The change held no room for subjective judgment. It simply was. ‘Why are you doing this?’ he asked finally, with a stubborn pull to his tone that twisted the corner of his mouth like a scar.

‘It is in my best interest to cultivate those resources that hold promise,’ Spock replied. ‘That you are not ready now does not mean you are without potential.’

‘Potential.’ This time, Jim did vocalize the repetition, exaggeration and all. Spock exercised further restraint and allowed a silence to follow, given the odds were in favor of Jim volunteering to reveal more of himself by filling it. ‘Well, that’s easy for you to say, isn’t it?’

‘Such decisions as profoundly affect the future are never easily made.’

‘Because it’s not your brother’s life on the line,’ Jim said.

His voice was sharp. Spock supposed he did prefer that honesty to the more pleasant lie.

‘Because, as he is an individual of not insignificant political sway, even the Klingons would be quick to realize that to kill him would not be in their best interests.’

‘And there’re worse things than dying,’ Jim replied. ‘The Klingons are quick to realize _that_ , too.’

‘Yet he will live,’ Spock said. ‘And, if your abilities match your fervor, you will be reunited.’

‘Wow. Well, now that  _you’ve_ told me everything’s gonna be fine, I feel so much better.’ Jim’s sarcasm briefly eclipsed signs of his anger. He did not look as though he felt much better at all. ‘I didn’t realize you were the living expert on Klingon prisons  _and_ kidnapped brothers.’

‘If you were truly listening, then you would know I have claimed proficiency in neither,’ Spock said. ‘I have merely appraised the facts and sought to present them accurately, to the best of my ability.’

‘Gee, thanks,’ Jim replied. ‘With allies like you, who needs assassins?’

Spock held his tongue with the understanding that perhaps Prince James Tiberius required a similar pause to remember himself. It was not a breach of political etiquette that troubled him. Spock was relieved to have finally parted the curtains of Jim’s determined deceptions—and yet, proceeding while tempers flared too hot would not lead to any resolutions.

It was not unlike the pressure exerted to sprain a wrist while careful to avoid breaking it.

Spock could only push Jim so far before the damage done outweighed their progress.

‘I have already explained to you my interest in this matter.’ Spock kept his voice low and reasoned. His retainers, as always, were aware of his current location, but that did not mean he wished to be overheard. He knew exactly how quietly he needed to speak to avoid being audible to Vulcan ears. ‘Prince George Samuel would be a worthy political ally. Were I to assist you, it would engender goodwill between our two people. As the Alliance grows, so should its opposing forces. Otherwise, they will be swallowed whole.’

Jim’s eyes narrowed in the dark. He curled his lip, a sliver of pink tongue showing as he licked the split where his mouth was swollen. But Spock could see him breathing, taking the time he had been given and using it to temper his aggression. He had been inside Jim’s mind long enough to have a sense of how it worked.

‘Not because I’d make a good ally in my own right,’ Jim said, reviewing their case. ‘Not because you think I make a good point or because I swayed you with my arguments or, I don’t know, you think I’m cute. But because Sam would look great standing in one of those creepy historical caves you’ve got. A Vulcan prize.’

‘Would you trust any other motive?’ Spock asked.

‘I trust that Klingons don’t take prisoners,’ Jim replied, swiftly changing tack. ‘Which means I trust that they don’t know how to hold onto the ones they’ve got. What if they kill him by accident? They’d think that was  _better,_ probably. More honorable.’

‘Why do you assume it is the Klingons and not the Romulans who hold your brother?’

Jim scoffed. ‘Because I like being able to sleep at night.’

‘I am aware of how little you sleep,’ Spock said.

Jim’s anger flared then faded once more, no doubt upon realizing that he had been the one who requested an incursion into his mind in the first place. The after-effects of the meld allowed a one-way understanding, flickers of insight. Jim had bristled, then allowed a semblance of logic to remind him his frustration was misplaced.

The sign of an apt pupil was the ability to reconsider one’s position, to yield to superior reasoning.

Nevertheless, Jim did not appear ‘happy about it’, as the saying went.

The truth could often be a difficult matter to face. Spock allowed Jim to confront the realities himself, the troubled knit of his brow easing, a self-conscious swipe of his bottom lip with his tongue the final sign that he had returned to a sense of calm consideration.

‘So you think I’m a worthwhile investment,’ Jim said at last. ‘And you’re willing to put the time in for the sake of the profit you’ll make.’

‘I am aware of the threat the Alliance poses my interests; in this, our interests overlap. Prince George Samuel has presented intriguing and unique visions of the future in the past.’

‘Which means you’re using me to get to my brother,’ Jim said.

‘The same could be said of your efforts,’ Spock reminded him.

Jim chuckled; Spock could feel the puff of hot air skirting his jaw as Jim turned his face away. ‘You got me,’ he said. After a pause, he added, more meaningfully than the three words alone should have proved, ‘ _You got me_.’

‘So it would seem.’ Spock drew back and Jim leaned after him.

‘Since you’re so interested in the members of my family,’ he said, ‘you might as well get used to us being close, right?’

‘Do you play chess?’ Spock asked.

Distractions had proved successful with Jim in the past—and there was more than one way to spar. If Jim could move immediately from sleep to a verbal parry, then straight into a chess match without it affecting his game, then it was a clear sign of an unshakeable will.

If Jim’s chess game was anything like the way he fought in hand-to-hand combat, it would prove an illuminating insight into spontaneity.

Jim blinked. ‘Maybe I’m still dreaming. If you turn into a Denebian Slime Devil, then I’ll know for sure.’ He leaned back, as if truly expecting the metamorphosis to happen at any moment. Yet there was something bright caught in his eyes that suggested he was again teasing.

‘If you do not play, the simplest method of communicating that fact is to say so without flirtation or digression,’ Spock said.

‘I play,’ Jim replied.

‘I shall retrieve the board,’ Spock said.

When he returned with the set—from his private collection, the one upon which he had suffered defeat time and time again across a table from his father—Jim had rearranged himself on the couch and was watching the door, one knee brought up to his chest. He had also removed his shirt, another one of his strategies of bare skin, in anticipation of the event.

‘I wasn’t sure if you were actually going to come back with a chess set,’ Jim admitted. ‘I thought it was some kind of weird Vulcan let-down.’

‘I cannot imagine what an individual such as yourself would regard as a disappointment,’ Spock said. ‘But I am satisfied to hear that in this your expectations have been fulfilled.’

Jim raised his eyebrows. ‘Aim high, Spock.’

They had reached a level of familiarity that was entirely inappropriate given the terms of their relationship—such as it was—and yet Spock would not attempt to deviate from the path they had set upon. So long as their meetings took place in private, Spock did not have to concern himself with the example he might be setting for his people.

It would not be infelicitous should their involvement remain cloaked in secrecy.

Jim’s eyes were sharp on the board as he watched Spock set it on the table between them, heavy stone tiers balanced upon small, elegant columns. The pieces were black and the traditional white—a pearlescent stone that was nearly translucent in the faint light Jim had set since Spock had left.

‘That some kind of family heirloom?’

‘That description would not be inaccurate.’ Spock began to arrange his side of the board, leaving space for Jim to do the same.

‘What should I be reading into you choosing black instead of white?’ Jim leaned forward, pushing his chest against his braced knee. ‘Like you’ve got an inferiority complex? Or do you just prefer deferring to others? That sounds pretty Vulcan to me.’

‘Tradition,’ Spock said. With a look, he managed to convey to Jim that he was not about to set up both sides of the board. ‘The novice is allowed the first move.’

Jim snorted, an inelegant, animalistic sound.

‘I’m gonna make you pay for that one.’

Spock felt a stirring of curiosity within him. It was not the first glimmer he had seen of Jim’s bravado, but this form it had taken may have been its most honest expression. They had competed physically on multiple occasions, but the chance for a true mental match had not yet arisen.

He had tested Jim’s resolve and he had joined with his innermost thoughts—but this was a separate, unparalleled contest of strategy and wills. If Jim were truly talented, then Spock would welcome the stimulation of the ensuing challenge.

‘You are welcome to try,’ Spock informed him.

Jim took his leg down, settling his elbows on his knees to study the layout of the board.

‘We should play that other thing you guys like so much,’ he said. ‘ _Kal-toh._ ’

Spock lifted his gaze from the central board to look at Jim.

‘The strategy inherent in _kal-toh_ is far more advanced than that required to win a game of chess.’

‘So we’ll play it after I whip your ass,’ Jim said. ‘Got it.’

Had Jim intended to provide distraction enough for Spock by mentioning actions taken with his posterior, he would find that the Vulcan focus was not so easily swayed. Perhaps the game would give Jim time to craft more subtle attempts for the future—though they would not be successful on Spock, they might prove useful with a lesser opponent.

Jim grinned and made his first move.

By dawn, Jim had sacrificed both of his knights; Spock had surrendered three pawns and a rook, all of them necessary losses, all of them equally negligible. Jim made his moves quickly, then paced or stretched while Spock considered the board—or, at one instance, Jim lay down on the floor and groaned until Spock, after deep consideration, committed himself to the most logical choice of plays.

‘Finally,’ Jim said.

There, in a faint shaft of early Vulcan sunlight, he propped himself up on one elbow as Spock threatened Jim’s queen.

‘This is seriously how you play the game, isn’t it?’ he asked.

Spock paused to contemplate the earnestness with which the question had been asked. ‘I would not disrespect the sport or myself by pretending a handicap in order to flatter your ego, if that is what you wish to ascertain.’

Once again, Jim snorted, covering his mouth and a yawn with the back of his hand. ‘Not that. I mean you sit and think about it for hours—’

‘The longest period between my moves was an hour and thirteen minutes, twenty six seconds,’ Spock replied.

‘—for _hours_ ,’ Jim continued, ‘and you take all the spontaneity out of it. Come to think of it, it makes plenty of sense. This is _definitely_ the game for you.’

‘If you seek to forfeit—’ Spock began. It was his most generous offer, though given what Spock knew of Jim’s nature, it could simultaneously be considered a taunt.

‘Uh-uh. When did I say that?’

‘Your complaints implied a certain dissatisfaction.’

‘You think that, because I prefer speed, I’m a weaker opponent. Because I’m too impulsive, I make careless decisions. That I can’t plan ahead.’ Jim pushed off the floor, his shadow falling across the board. ‘I know, I know: you didn’t say anything of the sort or _whatever,_ but when you were in my mind, I got a couple of things from _your_ side, too. I know what that face means.’

Spock’s face was simply his face. It did not ‘mean’ anything, other than a recognizable set of distinct features.

‘But the thing that’s so great about chess is, the most powerful piece is the queen—only the game doesn’t end when you capture her. It ends when you corner the king.’ Jim’s grin recalled to mind that of a hungry _sehlat_ —one that had helped to raise Spock as an infant, with a fang it had chipped while crushing a phaser between its teeth. ‘Kind of sends mixed signals, don’t you think?’

‘A metaphor,’ Spock said.

‘That to play a game right, you’ve gotta have a partner,’ Jim replied. ‘That’s all.’

‘Am I to understand that you came to this conclusion while lying on the floor of this room groaning?’

‘You’re not the only one who can do two things at the same time.’ Jim leaned forward, lifted a pawn, and swiped Spock’s queen off the board.

‘I had intended that sacrifice,’ Spock informed him.

‘I don’t believe in sacrifice,’ Jim replied. ‘If I’m gonna lose a piece, I’m not gonna plan to lose it. I’m gonna gain something when I make my play—you can bet on that.’

‘If this speech was meant to impress upon me the validity of your strategy, then it has failed,’ Spock said.

Jim grinned like a Terran canine. He leaned forward over the board, peering at Spock through the upper and lower boards. Framed like that, his face looked like an ancient theater mask, hammering Spock with his naked emotions. ‘Maybe I’m just trying to distract you.’

‘Chess is not a partnership,’ Spock informed him.

‘ _We_  could be,’ Jim said.

He rose as Spock began to contemplate his next move. It was not untrue that he had sacrificed his queen intentionally; however, that did not mean that he did not require time and the requisite period of thought to consider his next option. While Jim’s tactics were not working as well as he seemed to believe, there was a certain element of diversion involved.

With Sarek, there had been no conversation between moves.

Dividing Spock’s attention was perhaps as effective a strategy as Jim had anticipated.

‘In this scenario, which of us do you envision as the queen and which is the king?’ Spock steepled his fingers beneath his chin, lifting his eyes from Jim in order to envision the outcomes of his next possible maneuvers.

‘Oh no,’ Jim said. Out of the corner of his peripheral vision, Spock glimpsed him beginning a series of one-handed push-ups. ‘I’m not falling into  _that_  trap. I’ll let you decide which one of us is mobile and which one is powerful.’

Spock reached forward, touching one of the carved heads of his knights. Unlike Jim, he had managed to retain both. He favored their angular movements, forward and sideways by the same, even number of spaces.

‘You are the one who made the comparison,’ Spock said.

‘I was being facetious.’ Jim’s breathing was labored as his body rose and fell beneath the line of the table. There was a glimmer of sweat between his bare shoulder blades. ‘I didn’t want to analyze it to death after I said something that sounded smart. Guess that’s my fault for bringing it up with a Vulcan.’

‘I am half Vulcan,’ Spock replied.

Jim’s push-ups ceased. He twisted himself into a sitting position, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. As Spock had not been keeping count of his motions, he could not judge whether the stop had come naturally, or as a result of his decision to focus on the conversation.

The matter of Spock’s parentage was not information difficult to obtain. And yet, when they had veered too near the topic in the past, Spock had swiftly put an end to the discussion.

It was little wonder Jim had taken interest.

‘A fact of which you were already aware,’ Spock reminded him.

‘Half-human on your mother’s side,’ Jim said.

Spock did not attempt to silence him with a hand around his throat—not this time. To betray the appearance of any emotional weakness was outside the bounds of the game and its rules, which existed for a reason. To follow them was to stay alive.

Jim waited and Spock surrendered nothing, no piece of himself—whether comparable to a pawn or otherwise.

‘A fact of which I was already aware, right,’ Jim said. He raked his fingers through his hair; he rubbed a sore spot on his left shoulder; he stretched the muscles in his upper back, rolled his neck until it popped, and bit a corner of his thumbnail in a display that would have been, from a Vulcan, practically obscene.

More distraction.

‘Always thought of myself as more of a knight, anyway,’ Jim added.

‘This is an unsurprising choice.’

Jim tilted his head to the side, allowing the sweat that had pooled in the hollow of his throat to remain unattended. ‘You’re not as easy to pin down, though. Literally and figuratively.’

He winked.

Spock saw no reason why such an obvious statement required further discussion, but there was much in which Jim indulged that was not required. It simply happened, as though to be natural was to be desirable.

Vulcans were many things; natural was not among them. Their nature was to be molded, to be wielded, as a tool and as a weapon. Their savagery was natural, but savagery was unpredictable and could not be relied upon for victory.

‘I sense your analysis will be forthcoming,’ Spock said.

‘It’s on the tip of my tongue,’ Jim replied.

He revealed the tip of his tongue, where nothing physical rested, at least not that which was visible to the naked eye. Yet Spock understood a more literal interpretation was not intended.

‘Like I said, you’re not as easy to pin down,’ Jim continued. ‘I mean, at first glance, some people might be tempted to say you’re like a bishop, but you’re not the type to move diagonally. But a rook’s not the perfect fit, either.’

‘And the reason for that is…?’

‘Your head’s too smooth for all those crenellated edges,’ Jim replied. ‘Maybe a bishop’s the best choice after all. Same hairstyle and everything.’

He laughed at his own joke, pleased with himself and choosing, for a yet unknown reason, to make that point obvious.

Spock took Jim’s queen—an unexpectedly impulsive move, but one that evened the board. Then he checked the hour, saw that it was long past dawn, and rose from his seat, letting his shadow cast Jim in brief shade. ‘I have other business to attend to at this time.’

‘You’re gonna make me jealous,’ Jim said.

‘I have reason to doubt that,’ Spock replied. ‘Bored due to a lack of immediate stimulation, perhaps, but to say you would be jealous would be highly inaccurate. I do suggest that you take this ample pause to consider your next move more with greater care. Perhaps it will provide a new perspective on your engagement with the game.’

Jim headed toward the table and board on his knees. With a pawn, he skipped over one of Spock’s bishops and landed the piece on— ‘Check.’

Spock left him on his knees on the floor, though it was clear, he was by no means begging.

*


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some prefer _kal-toh_.

As the days stretched into a week and a week into more, Jim had to beat Spock twice before he’d let Jim move on to  _kal-toh_.

It was a change from getting thrown around in the hot sand, although Jim couldn’t decide whether or not it was a welcome one. Being caged up left him crawling out of his skin with impatience. He had fewer excuses to strip down in his quarters than he did for playing strategy games with the Prince of Vulcan and he’d all but exhausted his options pacing around the room, practically crawling up the walls, while waiting for Spock to take his turn.

The guards posted outside Jim’s door refused to look at him, let alone speak. He’d offered opinions on the weather through the door, gossip about Earth’s celebrities and his frank appraisal of their uniforms; he never got anything back. He couldn’t even hear them pacing outside, which should’ve been a comfort, but the silence was starting to drive him crazy.

Vulcan captivity chafed like a bad blister, but whenever Jim started to feel impatient, he thought about what Sam could’ve been enduring.

He wasn’t kidding about the Klingon attention—or lack thereof—to prisoners. They wouldn’t care if Sam died. And the Romulans would make death look like the better option.

The way Spock was keeping Jim here to cultivate him like a cactus until he bloomed under the desert sun suggested  _he_ didn’t care much, himself.

It was all well and good to say Jim wasn’t prepared, but ready or not didn’t get Sam back any sooner. He could appreciate the gesture, but not its execution.

And _execution_  was the last word he wanted to be thinking of.

He was judging the distance from his balcony to the ground below—not as an escape, but just to keep Spock on his toes—when the door to his room hissed open and snicked shut. There was a sharp crack of stone on stone from three floors down, too far for Jim to see what it was all about.

Jim tucked himself into the shadow of one heavy drape, using it to hide from view so he could peer around the corner.

Thanks to the surprise sweeps from Spock’s retainers, he was out of hidden phasers. If this was another attack, he was going to have to grab something else to use as a weapon.

Too bad Spock didn’t leave that heirloom of a chessboard behind.

The possibility of it being used as a projectile was probably why he didn’t.

But it was Spock who stumbled in, one hand pressed against his abdomen. Jim had never before seen so much as a hiccup in his movements; his interest was officially piqued. There was a streak of something green dribbling from the crown of Spock’s head and over his cheek.

Vulcan blood.

It stood out in the reddish-brown haze of Vulcan afternoons, whether it was splashed across the bleached sands or on Spock’s pale skin.

Jim paused before unwrapping himself from the curtain like a present. The last thing he wanted was to encourage a wounded Spock to lash out at another perceived threat. He was dangerous enough when his every move was calculated down to the millimeter. If he didn’t hold back, Jim’d be nursing more than a few sprained wrists and a bruised ego.

‘There’s something different about you today,’ he said. ‘Can’t put a finger on it. Haircut?’

Spock remained where he was—because Spock was nothing if he wasn’t really good at standing his ground. Almost pathological, as far as Jim was concerned. Spock didn’t sway, either, but Jim could tell from the blood on his hand and the dark, sticky spot on his half-cloak beneath where he gripped it that whatever had been hit, he was feeling it.

‘Or maybe it’s all the blood,’ Jim said. ‘Yeah, that’s it.’

There was no way of knowing what had happened to Spock—and, given how tight-lipped Spock could be, Jim didn’t have much hope of squeezing the story out of him. Even if he did pick up on the details, there’d be no fun in it.

Jim had to assume it was the usual.

A coup d’état. A foolish attempt made on an official’s life by an individual or individuals desperate enough to try, maybe even desperate enough to believe they could pull it off. Jim still remembered the faces of everyone who’d tried the same with him—the light of hope; the silence that followed.

‘Romulans or Klingons?’ Jim asked.

Spock remained standing. Of course he did. He was showing off: trying to prove a point about conquering pain, maintaining complete control even while bleeding on the carpet.

‘Something closer to home, maybe.’ Jim stepped around the table where they’d played their latest round of _kal-toh_ , Jim getting closer to winning every time—just not close enough. Not yet. But soon. He passed the ottoman and another empty table, furniture that was too big to make a viable weapon, not a single statue or vase in the place once Spock learned how Jim liked to improvise with whatever was at hand. ‘Another faction.’

‘Their loyalties are with my intended bride, T’Pring,’ Spock replied, like he was talking about the weather. Hot out today; might get hotter; my fiancée sent operatives to kill me. Just another day on Vulcan. ‘However, from what I know of her methods, she would not have planned such a clumsy attempt. Therefore, they must have acted to impress her. Their failure was inevitable.’

Jim whistled. He thought he saw Spock’s jaw tighten, the Vulcan equivalent of a grimace, and that made sense. Their ears were sensitive to all kinds of sounds.

‘Somebody sent me a regenerator one time,’ Jim said, trailing a finger over the gauzy fall of curtain nearest him. ‘One of the most thoughtful gifts I’ve ever been given, now that I think about it. Practical _and_ romantic.’

‘There is no need. The Vulcan body is capable of great restorative powers.’

‘And you’re going to show off by letting it do all the hard work in front of me.’

‘Your room is secured,’ Spock said, after a pause long enough that Jim thought he might have passed out upright. ‘While T’Pring’s loyalists might have made themselves aware of the general blueprints of this palace, they would meet with considerable difficulty if they attempted to reach me here.’

‘Uh huh.’ Jim edged closer, sidestepping across the floor. ‘So what you’re  _saying_  is, is that you’re hoping the same stuff keeping me in will keep them out.’

Spock’s nose wrinkled in the faintest crease of a frown.

‘I am aware of the irony.’

‘Are you aware that you’re dripping?’ Jim asked.

Spock blinked, looking down. The slick trail of blood making its way over his temple took a sharp turn to drop off the end of his nose. Jim watched it go. Spock didn’t sway, but he kept his head bowed, like he thought if he took his eyes off the floor it might disappear out from under his boots.

‘I am possessed of the fullest use of my faculties,’ Spock said, sensing Jim’s approach. ‘The healing trance merely requires a deep focus.’

‘Yeah, I know how tell when I’m about to be ignored.’ Jim waited, watching Spock’s eyelids lower to half-mast before he lifted them fully again. ‘How do you know I’m not gonna attack you in your vulnerable state?’

Spock found him with his eyes, dark gaze sliding to the corner of his vision.

‘You must be aware that, even injured, I would still overcome you. And, in the unlikely event that circumstances transpired in your favor, you would lose any hope you now harbor of procuring your brother’s release. It is my belief that you are not so self-serving as to risk his life for a momentary advantage.’

‘That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,’ Jim said. ‘Now I _know_ you’re suffering from blood loss.’

‘I am not suffering,’ Spock replied.

‘At least sit  _down_ while you bleed,’ Jim said. ‘You’re making me nervous.’

He’d meant in one of the chairs, but Spock’s legs folded under him, sending him quickly to the floor. He didn’t collapse; it was more like a controlled drop. Jim started forward, then stopped himself as Spock knelt, folding his hands in his lap. His eyelids fluttered, falling shut in an expression of intense concentration.

‘Is that a healing trance, or is this what Vulcans look like when they faint? Either way, I’ve gotta say… It’s spooky.’

The arch in Spock’s back indicated impressive posture, whether conscious or unconscious. He let out a sigh, like he was regretting choosing safety over a little peace and quiet.

There was nothing to do now except join him. Despite his sudden height advantage, Jim wasn’t into towering over other people just to assert his superiority. He took the regenerator out of its drawer, just in case the whole trance thing didn’t work out, and set it between the grooves on the table where the chessboard normally sat—so a careless knock of an idle knee wouldn’t send the pieces flying.

Vulcans. They seriously thought of everything.

Jim settled down onto the floor at Spock’s side, hands braced behind his back, legs stretched out in front of him. He’d grown particularly familiar with the patterns on the ceiling over the past ten days. If Spock was trying to torture him, then in a way, it was working. The boredom and the heat, without even a book to read, hadn’t left Jim with much to keep himself busy with.

The worst part was the lack of company. Spock came at odd times; Jim was starting to suspect it was part of a concerted effort to make sure Jim was always on his toes, or because he never wanted to let Jim get the upper hand in _kal-toh_. Without him around, brooding stone-faced over his next move, Jim was alone, pulling up the ottoman to reach one of the high windows and gaze out onto the sands below.

Even someone who wanted to kill him would’ve been welcome at those times—at least that would have been a familiar danger, another body to fill in the empty space of Jim’s guarded quarters.

This was different.

Spock was bleeding and breathing in even, rhythmic patterns, deep and slow. He wasn’t rasping; he wasn’t swaying. He was barely there at all, but Jim would have to take it. He crossed his legs at the ankles and settled down, arms folded behind his head.

‘Spock,’ he said.

No reply.

‘Hey,’ he tried again, voice more sultry this time.

Nothing.

‘I’m gonna take off my pants because Vulcan’s too hot for pants,’ Jim said.

Jim reached behind himself, groping for the regenerator. When his fingers closed around it, he tossed it to his other hand, then nudged Spock in the shoulder with it.

Spock didn’t crack an eye.

‘Sam can never even know about this,’ Jim said, because it didn’t count as talking to yourself when there was somebody else in the room, even if that somebody was in deep meditation. ‘Any of it. That’s the worst part. All of this sweating to death on Vulcan, playing _kal-toh,_ fighting off assassins meant for you. And if I ever get a chance to tell him what I’ve done, he’ll actually say it wasn’t worth it. That I should never—’ Jim’s laugh never quite gained the momentum it needed for liftoff. ‘That _he_ wasn’t worth it.’

Spock breathed in, out, in. Jim shut his eyes, almost soothed by the predictability of the rhythm. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that with anyone else—shut his eyes with another person in the room.

Meditative trance.

But still.

‘He’s not the only one who can make sacrifices, you know,’ Jim said. ‘And it’s damn selfish of him to act like he is.’

Spock offered nothing in the way of a reply.

‘I never could understand why a person would choose to meditate. All that sitting still. Defenses down. Totally unguarded.’ Jim paused. ‘You’ve gotta be crazy, with your _betrothed_ after your life. This is prime backstabbing material, Spock.’

Spock’s breathing didn’t so much as whistle when he inhaled next. He barely stirred. His jaw was slack. If Jim hadn’t been able to see his chest rising and falling, the faintest of shifts in his silhouette, he might as well have assumed he was dead.

‘You two have to have bonded, you know. It’s practically impossible to get any information on your little engagement ceremonies, but I gathered that much. That’s how you guys know to find each other for the—you know.’ Jim leaned closer, bringing his lips almost flush against the curved shell of Spock’s ear. ‘ _Pon farr_.’

Not a twitch. Not even the promising hint of a green flush spreading over Spock’s cheeks. He wasn’t listening; he was so far gone he couldn’t even hear.

There was no way any human would’ve been able to withstand the onslaught. This wasn’t meditation. Jim didn’t know what to call it.  _Trance_  might not have been so far off after all.

‘Is that why you wanted to avoid it?’ Jim couldn’t help phrasing everything as a question despite knowing he wasn’t going to get any kind of answer. ‘With me, I mean. Because you’ve already got one person in your head who wants to kill you, and more than that would just be gratuitous.’

It made sense to Jim, in a roundabout way. Spock hadn’t exactly hidden the state of his arrangement with T’Pring, but Jim hadn’t thought of it in terms of  _them_ before.

His proposal had been a form of bargaining, of collateral. He didn’t want to get all tangled up in the Vulcan idea of romance, which seemed to involve spending zero time together and doing all your communication through agents of destruction. None of the good parts with all of the hassle.

If Jim was going to get the crap kicked out of him on the semi-regular, he wanted the personal touch: sprains straight from Spock’s hands or not at all.

He touched the tip of the regenerator to a part in Spock’s hair, revealing a nasty gash where someone had cracked him across the head with a blunt object. It seemed a little imprecise for a Vulcan. Spock had implied T’Pring was better than that, which probably meant Spock thought she was more like him.

Jim couldn’t picture it. Even the faint, hazy mental image he did manage to conjure up sent chills down his spine.

For the most part, all he could see was Spock with longer hair. He needed to get that image out of his head before it stuck there.

‘Think I should tell T’Pring to get her goons under control?’ Jim asked. ‘It’s pretty rude of her to try and kill you while I’m working on an alliance of my own, here. It’s enough to make a guy jealous.’

The regenerator hummed. It couldn’t hurt to give Spock a boost, especially if it meant they could have another, real conversation—as sad as it was that Jim had taken to thinking of verbal fencing with Spock as ‘real conversation’.

There wasn’t much else Jim could rely on. An arched brow; an emotionless ‘fascinating’; the shape of Spock’s profile as he refused to turn and face Jim while they spoke. And now, Jim was starting to crave it.

Stockholm syndrome would have to be renamed to Vulcan syndrome after this.

But Jim had chosen this. He’d wanted it. He hadn’t known what it’d bring, but he’d asked for it. So here it was: hands on its thighs, kneeling in the center of the room, hair parted around a nasty, green bruise.

The blood on Spock’s skin had already dried, the gash in his flesh knitting back together across the split, the regenerator heating the area as it worked.

‘Some romance,’ Jim said. He dropped Spock’s hair back into place, calluses nearly catching on the soft, dark fall of his bangs.

Seeing Spock messy didn’t make sense—even when he was on his back on the sands, Jim kneeling over him, twisting one of Jim’s wrists in the wrong direction, he didn’t look messy. He looked calculating, deadly, in perfect control.

Some of that remained, minus the scathing scrutiny. Not being scoured by one of Spock’s sweeping, peremptory gazes should’ve been a relief, but without it, all alone, Jim would eventually begin to disappear.

‘Guess you were right,’ Jim continued. He checked the side of Spock’s throat, where there were bruises like fingerprints blooming against the jugular. Someone had tried to choke him—tried, and failed. Jim left those bruises to the trance to heal, lifting Spock’s arm to check the main wound in his side instead. Must’ve been a knife; something more traditional than a phaser, more ceremonial. A real Vulcan assassination attempt, instead of one of the clumsy, slapdash Alliance attacks that valued the blunt statement of power more than it valued arcane ceremony. ‘I _do_ need you, so I _can’t_ take this opportunity and gain the upper hand.’

That didn’t sit well with him. It wasn’t a lie; it just wasn’t the truth, either.

He peeled aside folds of thick fabric, stiff with crusted green blood, pulling at the hem until he arrived at bare skin. The wound itself had already begun the process of healing; it looked a day or two old, instead of minutes. If Jim could’ve healed himself like that, he wouldn’t have spent his first few nights on Vulcan sore and aching, twitching wide awake every time he turned and pulled at a tender muscle group.

‘Between you and me,’ Jim said, hot hand on Spock’s suddenly fever-warm skin, ‘I wouldn’t, not with you like this. I came here for a partnership and even if it _was_ to my advantage, I probably wouldn’t do a damn thing to you. Not like this. Stupid, right? _Fascinating_ , even. But mostly stupid. Wouldn’t want to take your favorite word in vain. _God,_ I hope you can’t hear anything I’m saying. _Pon farr_ ,’ he added, this time swooping in toward Spock’s jaw.

Nothing.

Vulcan self-control was legendary, but Jim had seen its breaking points, rare as they were.

‘Maybe it’s honor,’ Jim said. ‘Maybe it’s the same thing that got Sam into trouble in the first place. I mean, you can’t kick a guy when his own fiancée just tried to kill him.’

That was in the rulebook somewhere. Good conduct, the rules of engagement. Jim grinned at his own pun. There wasn’t anybody around to see him. He couldn’t help but wish Spock had been in his head for  _that_  one, but then, he could never impress anyone on demand. He thought of his best puns when no one was listening.

The Kirk luck, coming around to bite him in the ass. Not like he could complain, when Dad and Sam had gotten it worse than him.

‘I wouldn’t want to be second in line, anyway. Make a repeat performance,’ Jim said. ‘Who wants to be known for following your ex’s example? No way.’

Spock wouldn’t pipe up to confirm or deny.

‘You know, if this relationship’s gonna work, you’re gonna have to do more to keep up your end of the conversation,’ Jim said. ‘I’m not a one-man show here.’

Actually, there were people out there who would’ve said this was his dream relationship: one in which he could talk as much as he liked without having to listen. But it was no fun going on and on without an audience to get sick of him. Jim was starting to wonder if Spock had gone into this trance just to spite him.

That stab wound was dangerously close to his heart, though. A gut wound wasn’t good for anyone human, but this one would’ve been inches away from Jim’s liver, which meant T’Pring’s agents really weren’t messing around.

Spock could talk all he liked about how clumsy they were, but they’d gotten closer than he was willing to admit.

Jim felt upward along the slanted shape of Spock’s ribcage, tracing the slight dips in between the bone. Spock was slender, skin hot and dry. Jim would’ve been drenched in his own sweat by now, halfway into shock.

He was relieved to be worlds apart from his CMO and medical team back on Earth. He’d already violated at least ten of the precepts he’d promised to adhere to before running off to Vulcan on his own.

Bones was going to kill him.

If he ever found out, anyway. It wasn’t like Jim had many witnesses to invalidate his version of events. In fact, Jim was the only witness. So if Jim died, the story died with him.

Spock’s skin was turning green at the edges now, flushed with the fever burning under his skin. If he were awake, he’d probably be babbling about the scientific reasons for everything that was happening, explaining the increased cellular activity that created subcutaneous heat and friction as the Vulcan body sought to heal itself.

Jim didn’t even need him. He was making things up just fine on his own.

‘It’d be  _just_ like you to take yourself out of commission now, you know. You’d do anything to stall us looking for Sam.’

Spock wouldn’t thank him for it, but Jim turned the regenerator back on. ‘No use being stubborn in private. You’re trying to prove a point to me; I get it. Patience and perseverance and whatever. Vulcans are impenetrable fortresses. Well, no man’s an island, Spock, and no Vulcan’s a planet. Since you’re deep in trance-land, you can’t tell me how Vulcan _is_ a planet, technically.’ Spock’s skin was a few degrees cooler; the knife-wound over his heart wasn’t as raw and angry as it had been before the regenerator went to work. It could’ve done more, but Jim was capable of compromise, of meeting Spock halfway. One of them had to be. ‘The thing is, I’m here right now; you trust me not to stab you in the back, and I trust you to heal _most_ of your injuries. But we’ve all gotta make concessions.’

Jim tucked Spock’s shirt back into place, his fingertips coming away tinged with green. He tried to wipe the Vulcan blood off onto his thigh, then onto the rug, then gave up, settling down on his back again, hand over his head. There was no chance of getting clean without a sonic shower, and Jim wasn’t about to leave now.

Spock’s breathing was another point of life in the room with him. Calming, if not soothing. Predictable. A completely new experience.

‘So,’ Jim said. ‘Wonder how long these trance things take, anyway?’

In the end, it was four hours, give or take a couple minutes. Jim talked about his childhood—about Sam mostly, figuring it couldn’t hurt. If there was any kind of subconscious absorption of information going on during the trance, the least Jim could do was talk Sam up, give Spock extra reasons to want to save him.

And there were plenty of reasons to want to save Sam. Jim threw in the personal as well as the political. Sam was always looking to build up relations between their two empires. He had ideas, plans, and all these hopes for something more.

Jim talked until his throat was sore and his voice hoarse, sneaking a few peeks at Spock’s side when he remembered to. The progress was—to borrow Spock’s description—fascinating. Jim had never seen anything like it. He wasn’t about to compliment Spock or admit how cool it was once he was conscious, but while he had a chance to observe, there was no reason not to.

Plus, it’d give him some idea of how much more time he had to wait. Stand guard—or lie guard, mostly. It was cooler the lower Jim got to the floor.

The sixth time Jim reached over to peel back the fabric of Spock’s sweater and check in on the damage, Spock reached up and grabbed Jim’s wrist. His eyes opened with Jim about to start up his one-sided conversation again.

‘Can’t blame me for getting lonely,’ Jim managed instead. It was a weak cover-up, but it was the best he could offer.

Spock didn’t let him go. His breathing was still even, but he hadn’t looked away from Jim’s face.

‘Don’t tell me you got lonely, too,’ Jim said. ‘All that, uh, trance-ing.’

Spock watched him, gaze dark and wary. ‘I was not entertaining conscious thought; therefore, I could not have been lonely.’

‘Ouch.’ Jim stretched out onto his back, finding a cool place on the stone to press against his skin, away from the prickle of woven fibers. ‘I open myself up to emotional vulnerability and you shut me down. Typical Vulcan ego.’

Spock drew in a breath, straightening his back so he got a dip in his lower back. Even half-dead, he looked like a work of art: something carved out of the hard desert rock. By contrast, Jim was a tousled mess, sweating and red in the face from merely keeping an eye on the Prince of Vulcan while he meditated his way into healing his injuries.

And he hadn’t even been able to commit to that, losing patience halfway through and finishing the job for him.

‘“Trance-ing” is not the appropriate term,’ Spock said, after a moment’s consideration.

‘Well,’ Jim replied, ‘I’m only human.’

He grinned, privately enjoying the double meaning of the joke. Even conscious, there was no telling whether Spock got it. He wasn’t exactly free with his sense of humor. Jim studied the brushed stone ceiling above their heads, carved to form an elegant dome instead of a simple, flat shape.

‘Indeed,’ Spock replied.

He didn’t even have the energy to punctuate his dry, Vulcan sarcasm with a raised eyebrow. Jim yawned, covering his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘You’ve been out for a while.’

‘I did not ask,’ Spock said. He was quiet for a spell, but this time Jim felt something approaching through the quiet. ‘Have you remained in your room for the duration of my trance?’

‘Well, I thought about going over the balcony and rappelling down the back wall of the palace, but you seem to forget  _I_  came here to  _you_ ,’ Jim replied. ‘I stepped into this bear trap of my own volition, pal.’

He wrinkled his nose at the sound of that endearment rolling off his tongue. They were many things, most of them indescribable, but close enough for nicknames definitely didn’t describe their present stage.

Whatever it was.

‘I had hoped you might report on any further incidents that may have occurred during my respite,’ Spock said. ‘If the information I require is too detailed, or if you cannot give me what I require, then I will seek my answers elsewhere.’

‘Worried about those scary, hooded retainers of yours, are we?’ Jim asked. ‘Blood loss makes you so sweet.’

‘It is in my interest to be aware of all that has passed within my jurisdiction—and beyond. If T’Pring has chosen a time when I am indisposed, however briefly, to make incursions upon my territory or holdings, then it is also in your interest to be aware of the same.’

‘I won’t tell the guards you weren’t thinking of them after all,’ Jim said. ‘Wouldn’t want to hurt their feelings. Do statues have feelings?’ Spock didn’t reply. It was just like old, trance times. Jim sighed. ‘As far as I could tell, everything around here was quiet.’ Except for Jim himself, but Spock didn’t need to know about that. ‘You know, Spock, if I wasn’t being held prisoner in here, I could’ve looked after your territory and holdings while you were napping.’

‘In a healing trance.’

‘Just saying.’

‘The guard detail is for your protection,’ Spock said.

‘And for yours,’ Jim replied. ‘I mean, it keeps me in just as much as it keeps your enemies out. When you look at it like that, it’s almost like you don’t trust me.’

At last, Spock turned away, though he kept his fingers closed like a manacle around Jim’s wrist. If Jim hadn’t known better, he would’ve said Spock was grounding himself through the touch. As it was, he was probably just looking to remind himself of what real helplessness felt like.

By comparison, he was doing just great.

‘You made no attempts at an escape while you had the opportunity,’ Spock said.

‘Yeah, for the reasons I already made _perfectly_ clear.’

‘If you had desired your own success above all else, those reasons would have meant nothing to you.’

‘Well, it’s not like I was fighting assassins off for you or anything like that,’ Jim said. ‘But I did do that once, didn’t I? More than once, even. You know, I could’ve done it when T’Pring’s operatives showed up, too—if I’d been around.’

‘Our games of chess and _kal-toh_ have not been without resulting improvement,’ Spock replied.

Again, if Jim hadn’t known better, he would’ve called that a compliment.

It must’ve been the blood loss talking.

‘There is only so much you could have observed from here,’ Spock continued, proving one of Jim’s points for him. ‘Therefore I must be apprised of that which I have missed in—’

‘Four hours,’ Jim said. ‘A little more. I don’t have a clock. Maybe you hadn’t noticed. Had to keep track old school.’

‘—that which I have missed in four hours.’ Spock rose. He almost drew Jim with him, but he let go the moment Jim began to follow. There was still green blood staining Jim’s fingers. ‘You will remain here.’

‘Yeah,’ Jim said. ‘I figured.’

The door opened. Spock left. Jim had never expected to be thanked. The room wasn’t empty without Spock—after all, Jim was still there—but it was emptier. Jim got water from his limited replicator and drank half, splashing the rest on his face and scrubbing his hands clean with what was left. Droplets fell to the floor, dotting the carpet between the stains Spock had left behind.

When the door opened again, Jim was doing pushups.

Spock was there, holding a PADD.

‘Come with me,’ he said. ‘I have information on your brother.’

*


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The grand tour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading, guys. Can't even tell you how much it means to me!

In spite of Jim’s warnings about the dangers of investigating too closely into the matter of Prince George Samuel, Spock’s three best agents had all returned alive, though not unscathed.

If they had been present during the assault on Spock’s household by T’Pring’s loyalists, he might have sustained less serious injury himself. As things stood, their separate wounds indicated a certain balance in their own interconnecting lives, their service to Spock and his family.

Spock’s retainers had not been present to protect him from an external attack because they had left Vulcan in a stealth-capable vessel, in order to procure for him the necessary information to deal with his princely captive.

According to their intelligence, Jim’s brother was alive, being held under close watch by the Romulans who had been sent to preserve their interests on a Klingon space station. They considered Prince George Samuel chief among those interests, and thus did not trust the Klingons with his life—at least not to the specifications necessary to maintain a hostage’s health and well-being.

Humans, compared to other space-faring species, had a delicate physiology. Any negligence in their care could afflict mortal damage entirely by accident.

Jim had not wanted to consider that his brother was suffering at the tender mercies of the Romulans—he had not wanted to allow his brother to continue suffering, wherever he was—but Spock viewed this as a failure of imagination.

Jim feared the Romulans because their work and traditions were largely shrouded in secrecy. But from what information Spock had managed to gather, their methods were far more logical, and therefore predictable, than those of the Klingons.

George Samuel Kirk was in no immediate danger of expiration, whether his death was accidental or otherwise. He was being held for his political sway over Earth—and, consequently, over Starfleet’s military headquarters. His life would not be wasted while it was still possible to gain from his position and knowledge.

It would be possible—if not simple—to achieve influence over Empress Winona Kirk if her son’s safety were held over her head. It was a powerful motivation. Spock’s own mother was human, and humans valued the importance of family. Spock would not speculate on what lengths she would go to in order to assure herself of his safety.

Spock had left Jim alone with the necessary time to process the intelligence Spock had gathered—a basic report, with three separate images of George Samuel as proof—but in order to effect certain changes to his living conditions, solitude was a courtesy Spock could not extend for long.

When he entered Jim’s chambers, nodding to the two-man guard detail outside, Earth’s second prince was standing on his head.

A demonstration of skillful balance and posture, if nothing else.

‘You look funny upside-down,’ Jim said.

It was likely Jim was using this behavior as a way to distract from his true reaction to the news of his brother—a reaction he clearly felt the need to keep private. Again, the issue of family could present or reveal treacherous weakness, and Jim had chosen this method of obfuscation for reasons known only to him. There were others that would have involved fewer acrobatics, but as Jim was determined to keep others ‘on’ their ‘toes’, he had chosen to be on anything but.

‘Your PADD’s on the table,’ Jim added, his breathing labored. ‘Whoever took those pictures needs a serious crash-course in photography, by the way. The first two didn’t even look like Sam. They could’ve been anybody from that distance. Anybody with a terrible beard, at least.’

‘Now that you have been assured of his whereabouts, you must also understand that to act carelessly at this juncture would be to incur greater harm to his person.’ Spock had never before conducted a conversation with an individual committed to a handstand.

There was, as humans were fond of saying, a first time for everything.

Vulcans agreed with this sentiment—in the form of _infinite diversity in infinite combinations._

At last, Jim tucked his knees to his chest and somersaulted into a casual sitting position. His cheeks and brow were pink, his hair in disarray. He gave Spock one of his many sultry looks—likely intended to be rife with meaning, yet to Spock they were meaningless.

‘Can’t have that,’ he said finally. ‘You back for another meditation session already?’

‘I am here to remove you,’ Spock replied.

He awaited a shift in Jim’s expression. Instead, Jim licked his lips. There was a reason why he had been able to best Spock at chess twice—if only twice—and it had as much to do with the distractions he provided by means of his restless expressions as with his boundless imagination.

‘That’s too bad,’ Jim said. ‘I was just starting to get used to this place. All these memories, and now I’ve gotta leave ‘em behind?’

‘I shall take full responsibility for your behavior,’ Spock continued. Jim was correct to be wary of this alteration of their détente. ‘I have concluded that a ruse would not be unwise at this juncture. To allow my enemies on Vulcan as well as our mutual enemies elsewhere to believe that I have been distracted by your presence would in turn cause them to lower their guard. It will be vital that we are seen together with greater frequency. However, as your brother’s life relies upon this ruse, it would be imprudent to attempt any public display of violence against me.’

‘Wait a second,’ Jim said.

Spock paused for a second, in the spirit of compromise. ‘However, should you act in a fashion that would compromise this plan, rest assured that I will not hesitate to enact your punishment myself. I shall always be watching.’

Jim recovered well—or had ample experience ignoring a skipped step, lost footing, or personal injury. ‘So you’ll be looking at me. Almost like you can’t keep your eyes off me.’

‘For the reasons previously outlined, I will.’

Jim licked his lips again.

Spock was indeed watching.

Jim’s crooked grin was as guarded as ever. He was far more complex than he at first appeared. Spock had glimpsed a turmoil beneath the surface that was deeper and blacker than a night when the stars were clouded by an approaching sandstorm. Jim had offered himself, and had given Spock these glimpses, and yet he persisted in deflection.

‘Rise,’ Spock said.

‘Don’t worry,’ Jim replied, waiting for longer than was necessary before he obeyed. ‘When we’re in public, I’ll play the part of your love-slave _perfectly_.’

Spock had never in his life experienced the need to indulge in the human recreation of rolling his eyes. And yet, Jim pushed him far closer to the edge of his patience than anything Spock had ever before experienced, including his dealings with Sarek’s other son, Sybok.

Jim could not hold a roomful of councilors and other figures of note hostage while speaking extemporaneously on the matter of Vulcan religious beliefs and reforms—but, like Sybok, he could be tenacious beyond reason when it came to his favored topics.

‘You are not now, nor have you ever been, my love-slave,’ Spock corrected him. Jim grinned, indicating that this on some level had been the response he sought. ‘Neither shall there be call for you to perform in such a capacity later.’

Jim smiled with his eyes, allowing them to crease at the corners, although his mouth did not move. ‘Figures,’ he said. ‘Get my hopes up and then dash ’em all in the same blow. Very Vulcan of you, Spock.’

‘Now that you have brought consideration to my heritage, it is not “very Vulcan” to flaunt one’s sexual partners.’

‘I know,’ Jim replied. ‘You guys barely even live together.’

His face was flushed from the rush of blood to his extremities. Observing him in such a state, Spock found he should remind himself to be wary; just because Jim had conducted himself as a model prisoner after his first few assaults on Spock’s person, it did not mean he could be discounted altogether as a threat.

Spock would not have changed the nature of his captivity if he did not believe himself up to the challenge of keeping him in check, but it would not do to place full trust in Jim. Not yet.

The news about George Samuel had become their shared knowledge. As such, its usefulness as leverage was no more.

Spock retrieved his PADD from the table where Jim had left it. The standard settings had been changed from their default specifications; Spock’s passwords had been hacked, then changed; and several new photos of Jim’s face contorted into a variety of ludicrous, masklike expressions were now stored in a separate folder alongside Spock’s surveillance of the terrain in a local territory dispute.

He felt Jim’s eyes on him as he observed the alterations, one at a time. Spock lifted his gaze to meet Jim’s above the edge of the screen.

‘Did you get to the dirty ones, yet? Just—all I’m saying is, you might wanna hold off until you go burning that bridge behind you. I’ve got some love-slave-friendly attributes.’

‘Do you forget that I have already seen you naked, as it were, with your mind to mine?’

‘The organs I’m talking about are a _little_ lower than my brain,’ Jim replied.

Spock deleted the folder. He would have to exercise greater caution regarding his passwords in the future. It did not appear that Jim had sent out any communications, but Spock would have to inspect the action on his PADD more thoroughly in order to be certain. ‘There is more to vulnerability than the flesh,’ he said. ‘And there is more to nakedness than the physical form.’

Jim heaved a sigh, glancing over Spock’s shoulder as the last of the files was erased. ‘If you say that in front of other people, Spock, they’re going to get the wrong idea about us. Like I said—Klingons bite each other’s faces to show affection. Even Romulans are warmer than “more to vulnerability than the flesh”.’

‘You express concern for my ability to perform.’

Jim’s laughter was not expected. ‘In _so_ many more ways than one,’ he said, making certain that their shoulders bumped as he moved past him, starting for the door. ‘So, are you gonna give me the grand tour?’

It had been the plan Spock had formulated; it was one to which he had already committed himself. He would not fail in its execution. The Alliance would be lulled into a false sense of security; T’Pring would turn her attentions elsewhere, at least for a time.

The grand tour—to which Spock acquiesced—was not for Jim’s sake, but for the sake of witnesses. Spock led Jim from his confinement to show him the gardens Spock had inherited, moving next to the grand halls where his father Sarek had survived no fewer than seventeen assassination attempts.

‘And he kept on coming back for more?’ Jim whistled, the sharp sound echoing over weathered stone. ‘That’s dedicated or crazy. Maybe a little of both. But not everybody gets so lucky.’

‘It was not luck,’ Spock replied. ‘It was superior skill, strength, and strategy.’

Jim shrugged, lingering by a window, though he kept himself close enough to the frame that it was clear he was accustomed to considering the angle of phaser fire and adjusting his position accordingly. He ran his fingers over the weathered carvings, squinting against a hot wind blowing in off the desert. The burn from their last sparring session was all but peeled from his nose and cheekbones.

‘All this open space—guess most attacks must happen under the cover of night,’ Jim said.

‘Not all,’ Spock said.

Jim whistled again. This time, Spock had braced himself to the sharp, clear sound, splitting the dry air. ‘So, when am I gonna get to see your room again? This time when nobody’s actively trying to kill me.’

Spock gestured. Jim went ahead. He didn’t glance behind him, but he did make a comment about the view Spock was afforded, given the arrangement, to which Spock offered no reply.

Yet Jim did not require a reply when he spoke in order to find reason to continue speaking. Spock could still recall the distant hum of white noise that surrounded him during his healing trance. Jim had been speaking even then—though Spock had not been capable of responding, and though he had not filtered that noise into sentences.

Not yet.

It would come to him.

‘You have already familiarized yourself with these chambers,’ Spock said as he let the door to his main rooms slide shut behind them, his guards remaining outside.

‘I was kinda busy the first time I was in here,’ Jim replied. He touched a table; a paperweight; an open book; a pot in which a single desert branch would bud come nightfall.

‘Your fixation was on me,’ Spock said, ‘your opponent. However, you demonstrated both comfort and familiarity with your surroundings while engaged in your attack.’

‘You aren’t still holding that against me, are you?’ Jim lifted his eyebrows in Spock’s direction, wiggling them up and down. ‘Maybe I’m looking to see things in a different light.’

He ran his fingers over the back of a sofa that had been overturned in their initial altercation, as if examining it for flaws. Perhaps he was merely seeking signs of their struggle. Humans were prone to nostalgic displays, given the right temperament and setting.

This was the site of their first encounter. Jim was worlds away from his home in an unfamiliar locale; it was understandable that he wished to seek out something of his that had made an impression.

‘So this is how it’s gonna be now?’ Jim’s eyes found Spock across the room, where Spock was sliding his PADD away in a locked drawer. ‘I follow you around like a family pet? You sure you don’t want to get me a leash or something?’ Jim straightened up, rubbing his hands together with sudden excitement. ‘Or a  _collar_?’

‘That will not be necessary,’ Spock said. ‘I see no reason to keep you restrained, as you are unlikely to run.’

‘Even if I did, I wouldn’t get far in this heat.’ Jim plucked at Spock’s balcony curtains, rubbing the gauzy fabric between his thumb and fingers. ‘You’d have to send someone to drag me in off the desert, all unconscious and sweaty.’

‘And you wonder why your brother is considered more politically valuable than yourself,’ Spock replied.

‘Actually, I don’t wonder.’ Jim tore his gaze from the horizon, wiping his eyes where they’d begun to tear up. ‘I know what I’m good for. Being taken hostage. Throwing myself into captivity. _Sexual_ captivity.’

Jim ran his hand over the muscular planes of his abdomen, drawing his fingers across the jut of one hipbone where it protruded above the waistband of his trousers.

‘If it pleases you to imagine parameters to our arrangement where none exist, then I will not dissuade you,’ Spock said.

‘Is that your idea of  _not_ dissuading me?’ Jim said. ‘Because I’ve got some news for you.’

‘We have not finished our tour,’ Spock informed him. Jim was not the only one with news. ‘Despite the intentions you might have had by accompanying me to my bedchambers, I am not so easily distracted from my purpose.’

‘Is your door soundproofed?’ Jim asked.

‘Indeed, it is,’ Spock replied.

‘ _Fascinating_.’

‘For reasons other than the ones you are presently imaging,’ Spock continued. ‘Vulcan hearing is keen and in order to maintain a semblance of privacy, my private chambers must be adequately shielded from any parties interested in my business.’

‘Wonder how loud you’d have to be to break through soundproofing like that.’ Jim pushed off the wall at his back and crossed behind the couch, still leaving his fingerprints on everything in his way. A snow globe given to Spock by his mother; Spock’s first lute; the cracked fang of I-Chaya, Spock’s guardian sehlat, which Spock himself had chipped off while they were wrestling. When Jim came to the door to Spock’s bedchamber, he paused, hand hovering over the scanner. ‘You’re gonna have to program me into this thing, Spock.’

‘It has already been done,’ Spock said.

Jim pressed his palm to the panel. The door opened and Jim swung in.

‘You gonna follow?’ Jim asked from the darkness within.

‘There is nothing you may find within that I would seek to hide.’ Spock folded his hands behind his back. He did not need to watch Jim as he prowled between bed and desk, observing the statues, the prizes, the beaded hangings separating a meditation alcove from the rest of the room. In time, Jim would grow bored with inanimate objects and return, seeking attention once more.

‘It’s not what I’ve found within that I’m thinking about.’ Jim’s voice was muffled. Spock could not imagine what he was doing that it would be so. Then again, Spock had chosen not to imagine, where Jim was concerned. ‘It’s what I haven’t found within that I’m thinking about.’

Spock remained silent.

‘I’m talking about you,’ Jim said.

Spock could always rely upon him to provide some form of clarification, when silence was the only other alternative.

‘Bed’s comfortable, at least,’ Jim continued. Perhaps he was bouncing on the mattress in order to divulge its supposed secrets, of which he would be disappointed to learn there were none. ‘I was expecting it to be a hard slab of rock or something else painful and kinky.’

‘A curious expectation.’

‘I’m a curious guy.’ Jim’s next pause lingered. ‘Are you gonna join me in here or not?’

‘I should think not,’ Spock said. ‘When you have concluded your inspection of the area, you may rejoin me. Tonight we shall dine where the fact that we are in one another’s company is a certain to be noted—information that is equally certain to be passed on to relevant parties.’

‘If you’re not careful, I’m gonna start to feel used.’ Jim appeared in the doorway, wearing only an embroidered blanket from Spock’s bed, draped over one shoulder and twisted around the opposite hip. With a shrug, the former drapery slipped, so that Jim was bare to the waist, the blanket held up by one of Jim’s balled fists in a complete defiance of gravity. ‘And not in the fun way, either. Nice blanket. Sleep under it often? And now it’s on me.’

‘For what purpose have you chosen this display?’ Spock asked.

Jim tilted his head to one side. ‘I liked the blanket. What else?’

‘Do you intend to attend dinner dressed in this manner?’

‘You’re the one who ruled out collars or leashes. We’re putting on a _show_ , Spock. I’m prepared to commit.’

‘For the sake of your brother.’

Jim’s broad shoulders rolled with a sigh. ‘If you keep bringing him up, it’ll kill the mood.’

‘Because he is a close relative, or because you believe he would be distressed to learn of your behavior here?’

‘A little of both,’ Jim said. The answer came too quickly for any real consideration to have been given to the question. ‘Sam’s not exactly the type for this kind of thing. He wouldn’t understand the lengths some people can go to with an imaginative streak and someone else’s blankets.’

‘Very creative,’ Spock replied.

He took another look at Jim’s ensemble. As if sensing his attention, Jim drew his fingers back from where he was holding the blanket, slowly tying a knot to free up his hands.

‘You haven’t seen anything yet. Am I right? I  _could_ wear this to dinner.’

‘You could not,’ Spock replied.

He was unwilling to allow himself to be drawn into a senseless argument based on nothing but opinion rather than fact. More importantly, the knot Jim had employed did not seem likely to sustain the weight of the fabric for long.

‘Yeah, but even  _you_ said it was creative.’ Jim adjusted the fall of fabric over his hip, one thick thigh protruding through a slit in the blanket’s arrangement. ‘What does that say about him?’

‘It is my understanding that further discussion on the topic of George Samuel would “kill” your preferred mood,’ Spock said. ‘Since I cannot speculate on your brother’s nature, I would not seek to analyze his personality.’

Jim stepped forward, pressing his bare chest to Spock’s. The drape of his blanket left little to the imagination. ‘That never stopped you with me.’

‘I have been inside your mind.’ Spock could feel the ridges of his knuckles digging into the small of his back where his grip had tightened. ‘There is very little that remains a mystery to me where you are concerned.’

Save, of course, for Jim’s curious insistence on a physical relationship, as though he believed he would be able to relax only when he had established an easily defined use for himself within the confines of Spock’s palace. It was not uncommon. Spock had glimpsed within Jim’s mind a rage at his perceived purposelessness with no clear task to throw himself against and no obvious avenue to take in order to secure his brother’s prompt return.

In spite of not wanting George Samuel to be aware of his indiscretions, it was becoming obvious that Jim needed to invest something of himself in order to trust Spock in return.

Jim raised his eyebrows, looking Spock up and down. ‘Is that why you’re so good at resisting me? You think there’s nothing left to discover?’

‘That is not what I have said.’

‘Fascinating,’ Jim said again, lips rounded over the word. He savored in it as though the syllables were flavors to be tasted, leaning closer that Spock might savor in it, as well. ‘Maybe that’s because you’ve been on top of me already—and under me, too, come to think of it. You think you know all my moves.’

‘Your assumptions are incorrect.’

‘Then why are your cheeks getting so green?’ Jim asked.

They were not.

‘You have stared too long at the Vulcan sun,’ Spock said. ‘Consider employing the regenerator I allowed you to retain to fix the trouble you are experiencing with your eyes.’

‘I could say the same to you. Trust me, Spock, when T’Pring’s loyalists see me wearing this, they won’t give you a second thought—unless she’s the type to get jealous.’

‘I would not know,’ Spock replied.

Jim fussed with the knot on the blanket again, though it appeared he had done his best to loosen it rather than secure it. ‘I’m starving,’ he said. ‘Not that the replicator rations you had me on weren’t better than nothing, but you can’t get _really_ satisfied unless you’ve got something _real_ in your mouth.’

If Jim would not be disabused of the necessity of this display, then Spock need do no more than to have him confront the results of his plan for himself. He settled his cloak around his shoulders while Jim waited, unnaturally still, by the door. His face was hard. His back and chest were bare, save for the scars and ink. Spock took him by the wrist—not to call to mind a manacle, not precisely, but to remind him that they were now connected.

Perhaps it was not the connection Jim had anticipated, but it was that which he nevertheless had gained. He could sense the brittle defenses, the hard edges of Jim’s emotions—that he was thinking, as ever, of his brother, and this single goal had eclipsed all other thoughts he might have given to himself.

‘Follow me,’ Spock said.

‘I thought you’d never ask,’ Jim replied.

‘No,’ Spock said. ‘It was not a request.’

*


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finger-licking good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with reading this! ;w;

Dinner didn’t get interesting until the first assassin took a pause between courses to pull a knife. Jim made himself useful and ruined Spock’s fancy blanket in the process, although the new tear in the fabric granted better ventilation to Jim’s thighs.

He broke the assassin’s nose with his elbow, giving Spock time to drop him with one of those nerve pinches.

‘There is a reason why I prefer to take my meals alone,’ Spock said as the prisoner was taken away.

‘Just you and the royal taster,’ Jim replied. ‘That’s intimate.’

Spock’s expression continued to be as blank and bare as the desert below their balcony. At least Jim could catch a few breezes out in the open air, and dusk saw the temperature drop to bearable. Vulcan food left something to be desired without any animal proteins, but Jim had already gone through too many excuses about needing red meat in his diet.

At this point, it was only stubbornness that was forcing Jim to achieve the inevitable confrontation with Vulcan delicacies. Get it over with. Make it happen. On his terms—the only thing that would be.

Jim squished a seedy fruit between his thumb and forefinger. It oozed. He reached for a napkin, then switched course midway, licking the juice clean from knuckle to fingertip.

It could’ve gone better.

The damn thing was sour enough to curdle milk.

Jim fought to keep his eyes from crossing.

‘The _sash-savas_ is an acquired taste,’ Spock said simply.

‘Maybe you’d like to lick it off, then,’ Jim replied.

Jim’s eyes were watering—again. He had to swallow to keep from coughing, doing his best impression of that assassin from earlier after Jim bashed his nose in. He could feel all the capillaries in his face opening up as his cheeks flushed bright red.

His tongue was probably going to shrivel up in his mouth, turn black, and fall off.

That wasn’t a regular feature of human tongues. Spock was going to get some weird ideas about humans from Jim.

He reached forward and took Jim’s wrist in his cool hand, thumb grazing over the point of his pulse. Jim froze where he was rubbing his tongue against the roof of his mouth, working to scrape off the top layer of skin that’d been damaged. While he watched, Spock’s tongue darted out from between his lips, running over Jim’s knuckles where the citric acid was peeling off his first dermal layer.

Spock was licking him. With his  _tongue._

He hadn’t actually expected that to happen.

‘Uh…’ Jim’s face was hot, but that could’ve been the  _sash-savas_  talking.

Spock’s eyes lifted to meet Jim’s, dark as ever and somehow even more inscrutable. Once Jim’s hand was clean, Spock released him, returning his attention to his own plate.

Like nothing had happened.

But it had. Spock’s tongue had happened.

‘Is that your way of saying thanks for interrupting that assassin and saving your life?’ Jim asked. ‘Because if so, I gotta say: I could get used to Vulcan gratitude.’

‘You made a suggestion.’ Spock’s voice didn’t even have the decency to hitch. ‘I accepted your offer, as I saw no need to decline.’

Jim cleared his throat, disturbing the already-irritated tissues in his esophagus. There were doctors back home who’d be prodding him at the first sign of discomfort—but on Vulcan, he was distracted by another kind of prodding, mere potential wrapped around his brain like Spock’s embroidered blanket around his hips, keeping the heat trapped inside.

‘You make it sound so reasonable.’

‘I consider myself very reasonable,’ Spock replied. He didn’t look at Jim, pushing his food around on his plate with a delicate fork.

Holding it made Jim feel like a Klingon in a fine-art museum, all fists and clumsiness. He’d resorted to eating with his hands as some kind of crude stab at self-defense against Vulcan cutlery.

‘Hell of a dinner,’ Jim said. ‘You should’ve told me it was gonna be like this, Spock. I pictured a lot of dry conversation. Dry food. Dry air…’

‘If you have finished with your meal, then it would be polite to allow me to do the same in peace,’ Spock replied.

‘Hey now—don’t forget, you licked my finger.’

‘I would not forget. It is a fact of which we are both equally aware.’

‘You can’t tell someone to sit down and shut up after you’ve licked their finger.’

‘Strange,’ Spock said, ‘that this point of Terran etiquette should remain enforced so zealously when, over the years, so much else has been lost.’

‘Vulcans aren’t the only ones with arcane finger rituals. Humans have standards, too.’ It sounded ridiculous even as Jim said it, but seduction was still necessary. Jim had to make himself invaluable. Spock was stronger than he was and seemed to think he was infinitely smarter. If another, better offer presented itself before Jim had secured his place, there was nothing that said Spock wouldn’t take it, being so smart and all.

He’d know an opportunity when he saw one and Jim hadn’t exactly given him much to go on so far. One broken nose; saving his life a while back; trying to keep his attention with regular exercise; beating him at chess when he probably should’ve lost to stroke Spock’s ego…

It wasn’t as easy as it should’ve been.

He still had no clue what kind of mess Spock had found inside of his head when he went rooting around in there. He hadn’t gone back for seconds—big surprise there—so that was a pretty good indication he wasn’t interested.

Jim crossed his right leg over his left, then shifted to cross the left over his right. For some reason, the blanket refused to slide loose no matter how hard he tried to wrangle it in his favor, and it wasn’t like Spock was looking at Jim anyway.

Yeah. It was as far from easy as Vulcan was from the heart of the Terran Empire.

On top of that, Spock was the kind of person that couldn’t be pinned down. He kept his distance, followed his strict rules, kept his fierce Vulcan passions hidden, refused to give in to Jim’s constant prodding—and then he went ahead and grabbed Jim’s fingers, licking the killer fruit off his skin, before going straight back to business as usual.

And Jim was the one who was supposed to bring the element of unpredictability to the table.

He wasn’t kidding himself about where this was going to end up. He’d never entertained anything like hope for himself—since he’d needed to save all that for Sam.

He just had to be better for long enough that it would count. More interesting. More of a rogue variable. More special. After all, he wasn’t too shabby at recreational mouth-to-mouth and it wasn’t as though Spock was such an unattractive prospect. He was beautiful, handsome, whatever. Easy on the eyes. Of course, it’d be like making out with marble—or maybe it wouldn’t. It might be hot, like Spock’s skin during that healing trance, a hidden fever just below the surface.

Jim swallowed.

His throat still burned.

He touched his bottom lip with his fingertip, waiting for Spock to glance his way, throw him a line, anything. Jim was sitting at the table wearing a blanket and Spock had a cloak on, of all things, that fur-lined one that Jim remembered from their first meeting. He had a high collar; Jim’s chest was bare. And sweating—he was always sweating on Vulcan, even as sunset brought a desert chill.

‘Only one assassin at dinner,’ Jim said, making a grab for the water. ‘I thought it was going to be exciting. Dangerous. I guess it’s two if you count the…’ Jim paused. ‘ _Sash-savas_?’

‘It was provoked,’ Spock replied.

It sounded like a joke. Jim leaned forward on the table, resting his weight on his elbows. ‘We’re good together,’ he said. ‘Yeah, like a real screwball comedy duo.’

Spock lifted one of his obsessively-plucked eyebrows. He glanced from Jim’s face to his hands, following the line of his wrists along his forearms. There weren’t any more distinctive marks for him to find; Jim didn’t have any tattoos beyond the one he’d shown off over his chest. He didn’t wear his heart  _or_  his ink on his sleeve and the scars he had were in more vital areas.

Jim hadn’t been in Spock’s head. He couldn’t guess what he was looking for.

‘Our separate skills are complementary,’ Spock acknowledged. ‘Your fighting style is imprecise and erratic.’

‘Wow,’ Jim said. ‘You’re getting soft on me, Spock. That was almost _half_  a compliment.’

But it was impossible to imagine any part of Spock as soft. He was all hard planes, smooth musculature like he’d been carved out of stone and then sprung to life. His personality wasn’t any less rigid.

That was one of Jim’s favorite things about him.

That, and his lively sense of humor.

‘You mistake a frank appraisal of your methods as a slight or judgment,’ Spock said. ‘I am only half human; I do not indulge in flattery or its opposite.’

‘That’s not the half you inherited, huh?’ Jim leaned back to get a full look at Spock’s body, up and down. The cloak was floor-length and folded over his lap, hiding all the good stuff from view. Black on black didn’t exactly highlight the nuances for Jim’s human eyes. ‘Doesn’t matter. You make a good whole.’

‘An unfathomable statement,’ Spock said.

‘Yeah, and that’s not just the  _sash-savas_  talking.’

‘It cannot speak,’ Spock replied.

‘But it  _can_ be provoked,’ Jim said. ‘How do you figure that works?’

‘This is why Vulcans do not customarily make jokes,’ Spock informed him.

As far as light dinner conversation went, Jim was praying for another assassin. It had to be better than whatever the Vulcan idea of dessert was. More  _sash-savas_ , probably; extra-sour. They didn’t seem like the sugar-sweet type.

‘They’re not  _that_  bad,’ Jim said, instead. ‘I’m enjoying it.’

‘I have taken that into account in my assessment of events,’ Spock acknowledged.

Jim scooted his chair around the corner of the table, leaning closer again. When he breathed out it stirred the fur on Spock’s lined cloak, the separate, stiff hairs waving like an Iowa wheat field in miniature.

The homesickness hit Jim like a stomach pang, or maybe that was just the  _sash-savas_  finally making its way through his digestive tract.

San Francisco was home now.

It had been home for a long time, but when Jim thought about it, Vulcan was as much home for him as the Golden Gate Bridge and the drizzly afternoons spent under the auspices of Starfleet, pulling a hood over his head when he went out for a motorcycle ride so no one would recognize him.

When George Kirk had taken over his first starship—‘In the right place at the right time,’ he’d said, then paused to add, ‘Or the wrong one, depending,’ with a laugh Jim could still hear clear as daylight—the family had left their life behind as Captain Kirk rocketed through the ranks.

Three coups d’état and seventeen assassinations later, they were royalty.

‘If you are require further nourishment, you need not snipe the food from my plate,’ Spock said.

‘You can’t read my mind right now, can you?’ Jim asked.

Keeping him on his toes. Still. Just like Jim worked with the chessboard; _kal-toh_ didn’t allow for the same kind of improvisation, but Spock couldn’t be as difficult as _kal-toh_. Fewer moving pieces, for one thing.  

Spock’s graceful fingers set his fork down. He wasn’t finishing his yellow gelatinous blob or his collection of green leafage. As occasionally unappetizing as it was, dinner hadn’t been poisoned; that was a step up from almost all date-related meals Jim had ever shared.

‘Vulcan empathy and touch-telepathy does not operate in that manner,’ Spock replied. ‘The rules are many and complex.’

‘But the effects linger, right?’ Jim was pretty sure of those facts—as sure as an off-worlder could be. ‘The closer you get to someone, the more you…feel them.’

At the very least, Jim could end up as the foremost human expert on arcane Vulcan mind-meld technicalities.

‘So—am I lingering?’ Jim asked.

‘Indeed,’ Spock said.

‘Don’t tell me you’re being literal.’

‘A Vulcan must always be literal.’

‘Can you _feel_ what I’m thinking?’ Jim added.

It’d work.

It’d _have_ to work.

Finally, Spock gave Jim one of those scorching once-overs that wasn’t pleasant—but was better than being ignored like a tenacious mosquito. Jim was there; Spock knew he was there. Anything else would’ve been too close to disappearing for Jim’s tastes.

‘Were your thoughts more orderly and better structured, perhaps I might,’ Spock said.

‘Try harder.’

‘Your motivations at this time are unsettlingly unclear.’

‘If only you could read my mind and figure me out,’ Jim replied.

Spock’s hands—both of them, cool fingertips and lithe fingers, no calluses, bare and sensitive skin—moved to Jim’s face, cupping it in a tight hold. Jim had asked for it, taunted Spock to get it, just so it’d be over and done with. Now, he was in Spock’s grasp, not one of those smaller grips, Spock clutching Jim’s wrist instead of something hand-to-hand, what had kept Jim at a distance for days.

Jim didn’t, couldn’t, blink.

It should’ve been a release, a reprieve. Anyway, it was _something_.

‘You wish for me to know you,’ Spock said, voice practically echoing through Jim’s bones, ‘when you do not know yourself. This should frighten you.’

‘I’m not afraid,’ Jim replied.

It was out before he could stop it—stubborn, petulant, but desperately true.

‘You still do not know what it is for which you ask,’ Spock said.

‘Maybe it’s just that it’s something you aren’t ready to give.’

Conversations weren’t even close to chess, not really. They were something you built up, not something you chipped away piece by piece. It’d be better if conversations were like a brawl, something physical, with bruises you could point to and ice afterward. Unfortunately, conversations were like conversations. Two people talking, rarely saying anything true.

‘Or something you’re not ready to take,’ Jim added.

He was pushing it. Spock’s hands were dangerous, ruthless—powerful. Jim had seen plenty of what they could do, but the things he hadn’t seen yet were the real threat.

‘If you are finished,’ Spock said.

He withdrew his touch. Jim was relieved and disappointed at the same time.

He didn’t know what he was expecting whenever Spock made contact with his skin. Something momentous; a surge of heat through his head and a twist in his belly. A feeling like his brain bouncing off the surface of his skull, like he’d been thrown from his hoverbike on a sharp curve in the road.

With all that anticipation, he was bound to meet with disappointment. If Spock had been more expressive, Jim might’ve got a better sense of the effect, but he’d just about given up hoping for anything on that front. He was never going to get something out of Spock that hadn’t already been parsed and calculated—deemed appropriate for Jim’s consumption.

There was something comforting about that: knowing exactly what he could expect.

It wasn’t boring the way Jim had imagined it would be. He hadn’t been living with it long enough for it to fall into routine.

‘I’m  _never_ finished.’ Jim let the words slip carelessly from his mouth. Unlike Spock, he’d achieved a perfect balance mostly through rappelling between moments of total spontaneity. Saying what he wanted; dealing with the fallout later.

That was the Kirk style. It got them in trouble more than it didn’t, but Jim was willing to be the first to break the chain. A pioneer of lasting success.

The only thing standing in his way was a very stubborn Vulcan—and that wobbly yellow jelly thing on his plate.

‘Are  _you_  finished, maybe that’s what we should be asking here.’ Jim leaned forward, poking Spock’s dessert with his index finger. ‘Cause if you are— _when_  you are—we can retire to your bedroom.’

‘I have a political meeting to attend after our meal here.’ Spock lifted a napkin to his mouth, wiping away an invisible mess.

‘Will there be assassins there?’ Jim asked, resting his cheek in his hand.

‘There will be three senior members of the Vulcan high council and four of my retainers,’ Spock replied.

‘Not all five?’ Jim asked.

‘The fifth will remain with you,’ Spock said.

‘Great.’ Jim curled his forefinger to his mouth and licked it. It didn’t taste like any citrus fruit he’d ever eaten—or would ever want to eat again. ‘A babysitter.’

There was a part of him that wanted to know what Spock’s little meeting was about, but he got the feeling Spock wanted him to ask. And that meant Jim could do anything but.

‘You are not an infant,’ Spock informed him. ‘Despite the maturity your deficient table manners may suggest.’

‘You don’t _have_ to see it,’ Jim said. ‘You’re the one who wanted me around all day, every day.’

‘If you have evidence in support of a necessary revision to this approach, I would not be averse to hearing it.’

‘Your retainers aren’t the ones I want sitting on me.’ Jim paused. ‘That’s not the evidence.’

‘I do not intend to sit on you, either,’ Spock said.

‘That’s the whole problem.’ Jim settled back in his chair, knee bumping the table from beneath as he crossed his legs—widely, which took skill. He dared Spock with his eyes to look at the target tattoo and Spock met the challenge by ignoring it. He was above it; he rose, instead of rising to it. His cloak resettled, falling to the balcony floor. ‘You’ve sat on me before. Was it—I don’t know, not satisfactory? We could always try a different position.’

‘My retainer shall look after your needs,’ Spock said.

Jim snorted. ‘At least somebody’s going to.’

‘My business is my own, in this instance.’ Spock’s hands were pale against the dark fabric that swathed him. They lied. They looked innocuous—beautiful, but unremarkable—when Jim knew how wrong that was. Maybe everyone knew how wrong that was.

But Jim knew for different reasons and because of specific, personal experience. He’d _felt_ those hands.

‘You’re getting rid of me for the night. Had your fun, and now you’re back to work. Which you don’t think I can handle. I get it, Spock. You think all your retainers and the members of the high council can’t handle me, so you’re making it clear to me _and_ anybody else who might be interested just how little you trust me.’

‘You are currently wearing a blanket,’ Spock said, ‘and nothing else.’

‘I don’t care about that if you don’t,’ Jim replied. ‘Or—Spock, are you worried these Vulcan elders will get too distracted to conduct their business with me around, showing some skin? Or are you too proud to let them know we’re involved? Just wondering. Remember, I’m not the one who reads minds, so you’ve gotta help me out here.’

‘You are not without some value to me.’

Jim feigned a wince, covering the inked heart on his chest with his palm. He still didn’t have the same grace in his fingers that Spock did; they felt big and clumsy and not the least bit subtle, but he had to keep using them. Vulcans and hands—that was one of Jim’s ins. Maybe big hands were a turn-on for Vulcans, half-Vulcans included.

‘Ouch, Spock. You’re still having trouble with this romance thing.’

‘I do not require your interventions or your assets as greatly as the reverse is true of you,’ Spock continued. It wasn’t like Jim didn’t know all this already, but having it spelled out for him like that wasn’t the best feeling in the world, no matter who it was it came from. ‘Therefore, I must question why you believe yourself in a position to bargain for more than you already have.’

‘I don’t do things halfway,’ Jim replied. ‘Maybe I got the wrong idea about you.’

Spock stood like a sentinel between Jim and the doorway. He said he wasn’t proud; he was insistent that he was in control of his Vulcan passions to the point where they couldn’t be swayed. Jim wouldn’t have any luck goading him because on Vulcan, luck wasn’t a factor. Chance didn’t exist. Cause and effect were direct, straightforward.

‘Come,’ Spock said.

‘Been waiting for you to say that.’

It was on him now. A night of listening to Vulcans older than the desert itself talking about politics. They’d be more circumspect with a stranger in their midst, but they wouldn’t respect Jim enough to take him seriously.

Especially not dressed the way he was.

Or not-dressed the way he was.

Jim grinned.

‘If you believe this will be “fun”,’ Spock told him, ‘you will soon understand how mistaken your assumption is.’

‘That sounds foreboding.’ Jim stood, enjoying the feel of fabric as it slithered over his thighs. If nothing else came of this night, he’d at least have the privilege of knowing he’d made Spock’s favorite blanket smell like a sweaty Kirk. Humans were distinctive; there’d be no mistaking him. ‘And _that’s_ not in the fun way, either.’

‘Now is perhaps an appropriate time to inform you that fun is not one of the precepts of Vulcan existence,’ Spock said. ‘I would not wish for you continue any further suffering under the misapprehensions you appear to hold about our way of life.’

‘Oh, that’s  _real_  nice of you, Spock.’ Jim made sure to slide up against him when he passed him in the doorway, the side of his hip dragging at the edge of Spock’s cloak. The thing was too heavy for Jim to want to get near it, but he could toy with the edges. ‘How would I ever have figured it out on my own? Tell me something, and I want you to be honest: is that thing you’re wearing made from a skinned sehlat?’

Jim practiced the art of tuning out a Vulcan on their way to the meeting hall, not quite letting himself hear Spock’s careful, measured answer as they made their way along the tall, empty hallways. What Jim listened to instead was the silence trapped between the palace walls, the sound of Spock’s boots echoing off the stone floor, and any other echoes that’d signal they weren’t alone.

At the Kirk compound on Earth, there were always guards pacing the halls, making reports back and forth. After George Kirk died, Winona Kirk had a constant influx of decorators in to freshen things up; and then there’d been Sam’s friends, Starfleet’s finest parading around in their color-coded uniforms, redshirts testing the security by performing surgical strikes on the royal bodyguards at random intervals.

It was busy and loud and it wasn’t home. But it was what Jim had grown used to.

Spock placed his hand on one side of a tall, slender set of double-doors. He looked back in Jim’s direction.

‘This is your last chance to reconsider,’ he said. ‘It would not reflect poorly on you if you chose to retire to my chambers.’

‘Come on, Spock.’ Jim took a chance—he’d brought some of that with him to Vulcan—by putting a hand on the small of Spock’s back and giving him an encouraging push. ‘You keep trying to talk me out of it and I’m gonna start thinking you’re ashamed of me.’

He waited a second before giving Spock a resilient shove, wrapping an arm around his neck from behind as they staggered together into the meeting hall.

 _Make an entrance_ , as Jim always said.

Mostly because he’d heard other people saying it.

Of course, none of them had said it in this context: make an entrance wearing bedclothes, not real clothes; scandalize Vulcans, who didn’t believe in fun _or_ in making faces; get too close to someone who only encouraged the same from you when their hands were around your throat. Jim had to extrapolate. That was all he had.

Advice was mostly a guideline. Etiquette was like the napkin wrapped around a steak knife at a fancy dinner. Jim let his fingers linger on Spock’s hard jaw; it wasn’t the first time he’d thought about Spock with a beard and how it’d look on him. Distant; imposing; mysterious.

Some of the Vulcans in the hall had beards of their own. Not all of them were in cowls. Jim was the only one showing excess bare skin, but even if he hadn’t been, his rounded ears would’ve been enough to make him feel completely naked by comparison.

‘Hey,’ he said, keeping close to Spock’s side. ‘Fancy digs. Is this where all the desert magic happens? _Fascinating_.’

Six Vulcan brows rose on cue, as if they’d been orchestrated.

If fun wasn’t a Vulcan concept, then Jim would just have to make his own.

*


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim gets into Spock's bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The amazing littlesmartart on tumblr drew some FANTASTIC mirrorverse prince Jim and his scars and tattoos!

Allowing Jim to sit in on private deliberations—including him among the most loyal members of the council and Spock’s most trusted retainers, no less—was not the disaster it might have been. On paper, the reactions should have been clearly against Jim’s favor. Had the night been a simple equation, Spock could have solved for trouble easily.

Yet, beyond the parameters of the _pon farr_ and those specific circumstances when the elders allowed their passions to run unchecked, their restraint was truly exemplary.

Jim was difficult—as was to be expected. But when the topic turned to the incursions currently being made by the Alliance on Vulcan space, Jim’s silence suggested that he was able to take more from the experience than his behavior would imply.

He was listening.

He was too intelligent to be discounted completely.

His sudden rising and equally sudden departure gave Spock pause—he noticed it and made himself aware of it in his periphery while still reserving the majority of his focus for the discussion at hand—but when Jim returned with a masked stranger, the stranger’s arms pinned behind their back, Jim bleeding lightly from a gash on his chest, he had succeeded in making himself more useful than he knew.

Superfluous, ultimately, as Spock readily informed him, for there were guards, and it was unlikely the assassin he had detained would have done any real harm to those within the council chamber.

‘Yeah, but after what happened before…’ Jim’s voice offered the hoarseness of exertion with which Spock had become familiar. He touched Spock’s side, in full view of the assassin, the Vulcan elders, the freshly called guards, and Spock’s most trusted agents. ‘I wasn’t taking any chances.’ Then, he leaned closer, voice low enough that it was unlikely even the elders would be able to hear him. The words were pressed against Spock’s skin, meant for Spock’s ears alone. ‘You’ve got a traitor in your midst, Spock. Kiss me.’

Though the two sentences did not appear to bear anything in common with one another, Spock could understand the reasoning. This lapse in propriety would be passed along to whomever the supposed informant was acting for.

Spock touched the small of Jim’s back, which was sweaty and bare, with one hand. He touched the stain of blood on Jim’s chest with the other. He could feel Jim’s heart beating erratically.

‘So be it,’ he said.

His mouth closed over Jim’s.

Jim’s breath was trapped, hot, between their mouths. He had exhaled before Spock’s mouth closed over his own, providing him with limited opportunity to breathe.  It would be uncomfortable, but in Spock’s experience with the human practice of kissing, there was never much comfort to be found.

It was rather the antithesis of comfort that brought its practitioners greatest stimulation.

Then, Jim’s teeth sank into Spock’s bottom lip, scraping the sensitive skin. Vulcan mouths were possessed of the same sensitivity as a human’s. They did not use them for the same activities; Spock had never before been given cause to actively seek out mouth-to-mouth contact. Such a thing would be unheard of between Vulcans, and aside from the brave precedent set by his mother, Lady Amanda, few humans resided this far from their homeworld.

The alliance between Vulcans and humans was one of the oldest in the galaxy. Nevertheless, it was not without its history of duplicity and notable betrayals. To be close enough to kiss was also close enough to be hurt.

Jim’s fingers scrabbled along Spock’s chest, finding purchase in the soft edges of his heavy cloak. He bent himself backward to pull Spock forward, his grip tight in order to hold himself up.

Spock’s hand was firm against the sweaty dip in the small of Jim’s back. Jim’s muscles shifted under his touch and his mouth was hard and heated beneath Spock’s own.

It took a push to separate them, Spock wrenching away where Jim would’ve pulled him down to the table. He smiled crookedly instead, raising himself up on the balls of his feet to whisper against Spock’s mouth.

‘Think that did the trick.’

Spock, for his part, shoved Jim backward into the chair. Jim’s eyes flashed not with anger but as though he were delighted by the sudden turn of events and by Spock’s commitment to the deception in particular.

It was not in his nature to indulge in deception or potential vulnerability, whether it were merely perceived or otherwise. It was simpler—and infinitely more reliable—to trust in himself alone. Utilizing another party required their consistent dependability, something that Jim had not demonstrated during their acquaintance.

Not dependably.

That was the entire point.

‘Your Highness.’ One of the guards cleared his throat, a sound imperceptible save for Vulcan ears, drawing attention. ‘With your permission, we have begun a thorough search of the room, with a focus on all available entrances and exits. Should our interrogation of the suspect not prove fruitful, we will have to detain everyone for questioning.’

Jim sucked his teeth, making a wet, unimpressed sound.

‘There go  _our_ plans for the evening.’ He raised his eyebrows, looking around the room. ‘I don’t know about the rest of you. Actually, it looks like this is all the excitement you get in a week.’

‘Enough,’ Spock said. His mildness was not to be misinterpreted as gentleness. Even if the goal of the ruse was to suggest Spock was losing his grip on that which mattered in favor of maintaining a grip on Jim’s flesh, he could not push the act beyond the confines of what was believable to those who knew him and his adherence to certain principles.

‘You know I like it when you get all _commanding_ ,’ Jim replied. ‘How can I refuse?’

He had, at least, managed to intuit that further acts of blatant disregard for the Vulcan way would be unappreciated at this juncture. Spock nodded brusquely, then returned his attention to where it was required.

‘The questioning shall begin,’ he said.

Jim shifted, a loose adjustment of his posture that suggested, physically but unmistakably, he was the inspiration behind this desire to conclude business as quickly as possible—without foregoing all attention to detail. Spock beckoned and Jim followed, only for Spock to leave him just outside the door, with two guards who would lead him back to Spock’s chambers.

‘However, I intend to see to this matter alone,’ Spock concluded. ‘The rest of you are dismissed.’

It would provide him with time away from Jim, time best devoted to studying those around him with renewed interest. It appeared likely that there was a traitor in his midst, but whether it was a higher-ranking retainer or someone far below him, unremarkable enough as to remain unseen in the shadows, was a matter yet to be determined.

Those who were fully loyal to Spock had submitted themselves to a version of the meld—a means by which Spock was able to know without doubt their every intention. He spoke to each of the elders briefly, imparted what he had come to understand, and sent them away with their unvoiced questions as to his choice of association.

They could not understand this unusual behavior in their prince, or his unusual taste in companions.

For the time being, it was better if they did not.

The retainers were not disloyal. Spock had vetted them before he sent them on their mission. They were cognizant of their failure to protect him—that they had allowed an off-worlder to leap to Spock’s defense rather than to fulfill that duty themselves. The injuries they had sustained on their previous assignment may have been the reason, but it was no excuse.

They would not make the same mistake again.

Spock’s business was concluded efficiently, as it always was. Alone in the hall, the shadows did not frighten him. They were simply shadows. He had learned many years ago, when he was still a child, that the shadows themselves were not to be feared, just as one could not fear the cloak worn by an enemy, or his mask, or whatever it was he—or she—wore to obscure true intent. It was a waste of energy and focus. At the root of all fear there was nothing to fear at all. There were only actions and reactions.

There was also someone waiting in Spock’s chambers for him to return.

It would be a timely lesson for Jim if he were to continue waiting for some time longer than that which he expected. Spock called for his old sehlat, the once-great warrior guard I-Chaya, to be brought to him.

As in years long since passed, Spock spilled his secrets against I-Chaya’s fur, the fingers of both hands furrowed through the same, holding tight to I-Chaya’s thick ruff.

Sehlats—a rare few of them—had once been able to learn speech. They had been wise not to encourage this practice. Their deaths were far simpler, exacted with straightforward cruelty. They did not toy with one another. They did not lie. They simply bared their teeth.

As far as companions went, I-Chaya was trustworthy. His sentience was not on par with that of a human and he was far from Vulcan standards of intellect, but he provided a presence in which Spock could comfortably relax. Given recent events stemming from—but not necessarily related to—Jim’s arrival on Vulcan, this was a rarity.

Spock was not above acknowledging the value of something for no other reason than that it had proven elusive. He benefited from quiet time to reflect, as any ordered mind would.

There was a smaller, less obvious part of Spock that also appreciated the chance to keep Jim waiting. Their near-constant companionship had weighed on his conscious—and likely unconscious—thoughts. Spock was possessed of a strong character, but Jim was forceful as well, both physically and mentally.

If Spock did not adequately collect and prepare himself, he would quickly find himself exhausted by Jim’s natural exuberance.

That would not do, as Jim had on numerous occasions already proven himself clever enough to warrant Spock’s full attention.

‘He is troublesome,’ Spock said aloud to I-Chaya alone. The skin of the sehlat’s neck was slack due to his advanced years, creating folds under Spock’s fingers where he was scratching I-Chaya around his head.

I-Chaya could not respond. Spock refused to indulge in the basic sentimentality that led most pet owners to project their own understanding of events onto their companions. Therefore, he would not presume to read anything into the melancholy in I-Chaya’s wide-set eyes, nor the droop of his canine lips.

I-Chaya was a sehlat. He was clever for his species, but lacking the necessary faculties to express an opinion on Prince James Tiberius Kirk.

He could not be a conversational partner for Spock. If that was what Spock now required, then perhaps he had already achieved the stability of mind he had sought. Spock rose, resting his palm against the flat top of I-Chaya’s brow for a brief moment longer, then left him to enjoy the peace of an empty room.

Jim was not within Spock’s outer quarters, but there were armed guards positioned on either side of the door that lead to Spock’s private bedchambers. There was a large candle burnt to half its life on one end table, and a glowing PADD on another table next to Spock’s sofa. Other than that, there were no signs that anyone had been enjoying an evening alone in the vicinity.

Spock received reports from both guards, whereupon they confirmed that Jim had patrolled the perimeter for intruders before retiring for the night. At no point did either comment on Jim’s state of dress or his erratic behavior, which Spock took as confirmation of his earlier impression.

Jim was more than capable of approximating appropriate behavior when the occasion called for it. His insistence on the bizarre was an act meant to provoke.

He had come to draw attention. Having done so, he had retreated to a relatively safer space, perhaps to plan new methods of drawing further attention, or perhaps to rest so that his faculties would be appropriately replenished for future improvisation. Or perhaps, as Spock had come to sense from their moments of deeper contact, Jim had simply found a brief pause of sanctuary to hide from the attention he craved no less than he also, sensibly, feared.

Humans were complex creatures. They would not be soothed like sehlats—as they did not have thick skin and long, sharp claws and deadly fangs like sehlats, they could not afford to be.

Spock nodded to his guards, who did not have to approve of their prince entering a room that was already inhabited by an unpredictable entity. He did so past their carefully blank eyes, shut the door behind him, and listened as the locking codes beeped, muted, one by one. It was the nearest thing to safety one could find anywhere in the current political climate of their galaxies.

Jim was in Spock’s bed. This was unpredictable only because it was so predictable. Spock had been anticipating it to the point where he could not be certain that Jim would not choose another course simply to shock him.

It was a clever, if not sustainable, method.

‘Hey there,’ Jim said. He was underneath a blanket, one knee bent so that the cover was tented below his waist. As he had not stopped sweating since he had arrived on Vulcan, Spock could not imagine that the reason for this particular choice was for comfort. It could not have been for modesty; Jim had already exhibited little to no thought for modesty’s sake. ‘I was wondering if somebody else tried to kill you and actually succeeded because I wasn’t around to rough ‘em up. Defend my interests in the Vulcan royal line. Get my hands dirty.’

‘It was your decision to wait for that which was at no point promised to you,’ Spock replied.

Jim was still bare above the waist; that much could be seen where his skin was not covered by Spock’s blankets. It was not a new sight, as Spock had spent much of the evening and night in full view of the same.

‘So you’re playing hard to get.’

‘Unless there is a board of chess or a _kal-toh_ game before us, I will assure you, I am not playing.’

‘Gotcha. Well, if we’re gonna get down to business—right side or left?’

Jim had the singular ability to cause Spock to raise a brow before he had considered it. Spock could not allow it to become reflexive.

‘To what are you referring?’ Spock asked.

Jim gestured, widely, with one bare arm, the scuff marks and scrapes and bruises from their sparring sessions mostly faded, the evening’s bruises fresh, not yet deepening to true purple. ‘Isn’t it obvious? Maybe not. I’m talking about the bed. What side do you sleep on? I’m not particular, but I’m willing to bet _you_ are.’

‘You assume, without evidence, that we will be sharing my bed.’

‘There’s only one bed in here. You’ve gotta keep me close; I don’t want to sleep on the floor. Besides, Spock, I jumped in front of danger for you.’

‘I had not requested this,’ Spock reminded Jim.

Jim shrugged. He resettled his weight and slid the blanket lower, past the jut of his hipbones. ‘But I did it anyway.’

‘To prove a point?’

‘Sure. That I don’t do things halfway, like I said. It’s full ass or no ass at all.’

‘Your colloquial reference eludes me.’

‘You come a little closer,’ Jim said, ‘and I can show you.’

Spock considered it, the prospect conjuring a brief but vivid image in his mind. While touching his consciousness to Jim’s, he had glimpsed several possibilities that Jim had envisioned for their physical entanglements. He was aware of positions, preferences, half-formed ideas that coalesced as nothing more than skin pressed to skin: one body sweating, the other pristine.

It would be another distraction. This admission was to Jim’s credit—Spock’s mind was not easily diverted—but he would not accept it as such.

These were both avenues Spock contemplated before he allowed his gaze to leave Jim’s face.

‘I am comfortable where I am,’ Spock said.

Jim stretched his legs out beneath the blankets, spreading them before rolling over on his side. The movement coaxed the fabric to slip down further, revealing the upper curve of the gluteus maximus muscle. His skin there was white, an abrupt end to the melanin-rich coloration Spock had observed on the rest of his complexion.

The Vulcan sun had deepened an existing tan. Spock could not speculate as to when, unless he had been utilizing the balcony in his quarters for recreational activity.

‘You say that  _now,_ ’ Jim replied. ‘All  _night’s_  a different story.’

‘You assume that I need to sleep as you do,’ Spock said.

‘Everyone needs to sleep, Spock.’ Jim drew his fingers over the mattress. He had acquired an extra pillow from the sofa to rest his head and shoulders on. He was resourceful, if nothing else. ‘It all depends on where and when you wanna do it. Which side of the bed. _Positions_.’

Spock sat on the end of his bed, the opposite corner from the side that Jim had chosen to occupy. He had no favored side, no routine to be disturbed by the presence of another person in his private bedchambers. Spock had a talent for tuning out disruptive influences in favor of restorative repose. His friendship with I-Chaya had trained him for much of that which he could not have foreseen in his early years. Unbidden, Spock imagined how Jim might react, knowing he had been compared, however favorably, to an old sehlat.

‘ _That’s_  better.’ Jim leaned forward, reaching for Spock and latching onto his cloak

He wound his fingers in the heavy fabric, palm brushing the fur beneath. When he began to tug, Spock lifted his hand to the clasp at his throat, unfastening it before Jim strangled him inadvertently.

‘You are not undressing me,’ Spock informed him.

‘You sure about that? ‘Cause from where I’m sitting, technically—’

‘I have removed the cloak myself,’ Spock said. ‘My intentions to do so were never in question. Your contributions to this action have been noted, but they are not the primary source of its completion.’

‘What is it with you and not accepting a little help?’ Jim propped himself up on a bent elbow. Much of his gluteus maximus and thigh were now bare. ‘Nah, that’s not it. It’s more like you can’t allow yourself to accept it. You tell yourself don’t need it, so you won’t have it. But _needing_ and _wanting_ are two different things, Spock. As different as night and day—or me and you.’

‘Where, upon this spectrum, would you place having?’ Spock asked.

Jim bit his lower lip. ‘Dunno yet. Haven’t had enough hands-on experience.’ After a pause, he slid forward, sitting up, spine curved, blankets nearly slithering over his skin. ‘And it’s not for lack of trying, believe me.’

‘You seek to test my patience,’ Spock said.

‘You’ve been testing me all this time. Might as well give a little back. Keep things even—fun.’

‘I do not intend to have fun with you.’

‘You don’t intend to have fun, period. But that’s not how fun works. Come on, Spock, what is it—am I making this too easy? The games you like are specific. They’ve got _pieces_. Something tells me you wouldn’t even _notice_ if I played hard to get.’

‘Any aberration in your patterns of behavior,’ Spock said, ‘would not go unnoticed.’

Jim had refused to let go of the handful of Spock’s cloak he had claimed as his own. It was another, bright sign of his tenacity. Like any sehlat, once he had sunk his teeth into that which he desired, it would prove no easy matter to convince him of relaxing his grip.

‘So you _are_ looking,’ Jim said. ‘You _do_ notice.’

‘Should you continue to test me,’ Spock continued, ‘it will not be to your best interest.’

‘Hit me with your best shot,’ Jim replied.

That particular phrase could not have been anything other than metaphoric in nature. Spock reached forward; Jim’s free hand caught Spock’s wrist. Spock was stronger and would not be deterred; Jim must have known this would be true. Jim’s eyes widened but Spock’s did not. His hand landed against the side of Jim’s face, his fingers slotting against skin, flesh, bone—and thought. Beneath that which was tangible was that which had meaning, truth that could not be swathed in shadows and silk sheets, like the very same that Jim kept hidden in the small of his back, and between his thighs.

Jim’s lips parted. ‘You’re undressing me,’ he said.

Layer by layer; impulse by impulse. The reckless, disordered excitement of Jim’s thoughts was not without stimulating effect. He had, Spock understood, succeeded in the sense that he had goaded Spock once more into a meld—one that would not be to Jim’s benefit but rather to Spock’s, so that it was not a defeat in the common sense. However, it was, inarguably, a capitulation.

The point remained that Jim did not know with any certainty what Spock thought. He could not have known. And the knowledge that Spock found, rifling through the hazy pages of Jim’s consciousness, unstructured yet distinct in its chaos, was colored by emotion. The fascination of this particular mind rested in how compelling its contradicting parts were.

Every mind was unique. This was not in question. The ways in which this mind was unique was a question to which Spock had not yet determined all possible answers.

Pain; love; loneliness. Longing. The bite of desperation and the whisper of hope. Each had its echoes. Each echo had its secrets. And now, more clearly than ever, was the strain and arch of desire. Jim’s attraction was plain, if by no means simple.

There was nothing about Jim that came easily, nothing uncomplicated in his makeup that would give Spock a clear and systematic approach to dealing with him. Such clarity would have put a quicker end to their relationship.

Spock did not yet know whether that would have been a favorable outcome.

He shifted his fingers, the touch cool alongside Jim’s fevered skin. He could not fathom how humans spent the bulk of their existence so damply. It had to be uncomfortable: the act of sweating, trapping moisture and heat beneath one’s clothes and beading upon their skin. Perhaps that was why Jim preferred to go naked wherever and whenever possible.

Spock had long ago assigned his reasoning to further, if clumsy, attempts at seduction, but perhaps there was a more practical rationalization after all.

‘So?’ Jim’s mouth went slack, pupils blown wide as he studied Spock’s face for anything he could use to interpret and exploit on his end. ‘How’s it look, doctor?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Spock asked.

‘You’re giving me a check-up, aren’t you?’ Jim replied. ‘Updating your mental files on Jim Kirk. Checking out my _inner workings_.’

Spock’s fingers slipped into Jim’s hairline, which was cropped short near his temple. His scalp was damp as well, and warmer than the skin of his face. When he shifted the weight of his body against the mattress, his leg pushed against Spock’s knee.

‘That does not make me a medical professional,’ Spock said.

‘Well, if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck,’ Jim replied.

A flash of humor sparked like an ember flaring anew at the back of Jim’s consciousness. Spock waited for him to finish the statement, then realized it had already come to its conclusion.

‘I do not understand,’ Spock said.

‘It’s a  _joke_ ,’ Jim said. ‘Or a saying. I can’t remember which. One of those human free association things.’

‘There is nothing free about our current association,’ Spock pointed out.

Jim drew in a breath, eyelids lowering to shield his vision, which in turn forced him to tilt his head up in order to take Spock in. ‘Does that mean you’re gonna make me pay for it?’

Spock felt the telltale drag of Jim’s attraction to him, working like a river’s undertow to pull him down. He was aware of it without being overly affected by it. However, it would be careless to linger, having acknowledged and responded to the danger it posed.

Spock took his hand from Jim’s face, curling his fingers in toward his palm.

‘Goodnight, James Tiberius Kirk,’ Spock said.

He left the bed for the meditation mat, drawing the beaded curtain. He could still see Jim through the slits and he could still hear him—shifting, sighing, sliding against the sheets—for some time after Spock’s breathing evened into the rhythm necessary for meditation.

*


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vulcan bonding exercises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By littlesmartart @ tumblr:

Jim slept about three hours, which was three hours more than he would have with somebody he didn’t trust at all.

He didn’t trust Spock all the way, either; he wasn’t stupid. And, for the time being, Spock knew that even without having to take Jim’s word for it. Going inside Jim’s head made that much obvious to him, and plenty more Jim didn’t want to think about.

It was one thing being naked in front of a group of old Vulcan prunes and a couple of blank Vulcan warriors. It was another to be naked in mind and emotion, peeled apart like the wrapper on a protein bar, dissected for ingredients with a simple touch.

There was no other feeling like it. If anything, Spock had to trust him—and Jim had to trust that. Which was what let him sleep with Spock in the room, of all things, something he’d only ever done with Sam for the past…

For a while. Since he got his scar, and after that, his tattoo.

Having somebody know him that well didn’t feel comfortable, not exactly or in the traditional sense, but Jim actually slept that night—deep, restful sleep—and he woke only because of the heat, which was a physical disturbance and nothing else. Jim was sweating more than usual around the hour of sunrise because he was tangled in Spock’s blankets, clutching a pillow close to his damp chest.

It was hot.

Spock was still in the room. He’d gone from being a ruthless politician and warrior prince dealing with his most trusted advisors to being somebody who meditated.

Jim had watched him for a while before he drifted off. Spock had been nothing but a shadow between the falls of a curtain made of dark stone beads on strings.

Jim swung his legs over the edge of the bed and flexed his toes.  The floor wasn’t any cooler than the bed. Then he stood and pushed aside the beaded curtain, which tinkled faintly, to watch Spock meditate.

The noise took Spock out of it, of course, but it was a less dangerous option than giving Spock reason to think somebody was trying to sneak up on him.

‘Dunno how you do it,’ Jim said. ‘All that _peace._ You wanna teach me?’

‘Meditation,’ Spock replied, his voice deeper and more distant than ever, ‘is nothing like a game of _kal-toh_.’

‘Good,’ Jim said. ‘Maybe this time I won’t beat you quicker than you think I can. Or maybe I will. You never know. C’mon, Spock. Teach me. It’ll be good.’

‘Good,’ Spock repeated.

‘For our bond.’ Jim dropped to his knees beside the rectangular mat. Spock looked him over like he was expecting Jim to be completely naked, which—since Jim wasn’t—was a triumph all on its own. ‘The bond we’re building. Let’s do this. Come on.’

‘Our bond,’ Spock repeated again.

‘Yeah. The one we started. _Vulcan_ bond. So we’ll be—what’s that phrase?—oh, yeah. Greater than the sum of both of us. Together.’

Spock breathed out. It was the closest Jim had heard him come to a huff of frustration. Comparatively, it seemed like the Vulcan equivalent of rolling his eyes. That was something for Jim to take pride in. It took a certain disposition in order to piss off the most famously-restrained people in the quadrant, who manifested their fury only as conquest.

Jim had that disposition. He was the pride of his people. At least, he would’ve been, if he’d come to Vulcan in any official capacity.

‘I suspect that you do not have the focus required in order to quiet your psyche,’ Spock said.

He  _said_ suspect, but his tone implied there was no way in hell that Jim could sit still long enough to achieve mental enlightenment. Maybe dodging it outright was his way of trying to be polite.

Polite Vulcans. Now that was a terrifying prospect. Jim felt his chances at inner peace slipping even as he crossed his legs.

It was a position that would’ve been provocative if he’d been naked. But—despite appearances—Jim didn’t like to be obvious. There was give and take involved in the dance of trying to win someone over to his side. Lead Spock to expect one thing, then give him another.

Well, that was the plan.

Even clothed, there was a chance Spock would be picturing him naked right now. Just because he could—because Jim had given him the necessary tools he needed to fill in the few remaining blanks—and because Spock was smart enough to follow through.

Jim leaned forward, putting his hand palm-down on the mat between them and arching his back to whisper in Spock’s ear.

‘Give me a chance,’ Jim said. ‘I might surprise you.’

‘A statement I find highly unlikely,’ Spock replied.

‘Like it’s never happened before.’

Meditation might not have been a game, like  _kal-toh_  or chess, but Jim had managed to surprise Spock in both those arenas. It wasn’t out of the question that he’d be able to pull off another bombshell. He was resourceful. It was what had brought him to Vulcan in the first place.

That and the weather. When he wrote home—when he could secure a PADD of his very own and encrypt his a private subspace network to do it—he’d tell them it was just like lying on the beach all day. Sand and sun. He’d leave out the part where there were assassins kicking down doors and hiding behind curtains and dropping down from the ceiling.

Some people looked for that kind of thing in a vacation. Personally, Jim found it stimulating.

Others didn’t have the right personality for it. They wanted to relax when relaxation wasn’t really an option, just an illusion. Like a desert mirage.

‘To begin with,’ Spock said, ‘your position is incorrect.’

‘I can fix that. Remember—I’m flexible.’ Jim stayed as he was, on all fours, his back arched, for a few seconds longer, then crawled onto the mat across from Spock, on his knees again. He had to roll his shoulders out to get his back straight—straighter—even though there was no chance he’d get close to Spock’s posture. There had to be something wrong with his spine. Titanium reinforcement, maybe. It wasn’t natural. It couldn’t have been comfortable. ‘How’s that?’

‘There is more to meditation than the assumption of an appropriate position,’ Spock continued. Jim took that as a resounding _great_.

‘So I’m good.’

‘Adequate,’ Spock replied. ‘You are adequate.’

‘Damning me with faint praise, huh?’

‘I would damn you with praise at all, if I were to bestow it when it was undeserved.’ Spock’s hands rested on his thighs. Jim did the same, noting the differences between them, not for the first time. ‘Close your eyes.’

‘You haven’t.’ Jim gave his thighs a squeeze. ‘I’m not gonna close my eyes while you’ve got yours wide open. That’s just bad foreign policy.’

‘A bond will be impossible without trust,’ Spock said.

‘There’s not gonna be trust without a bond and you know it,’ Jim replied.

Spock didn’t respond. He was good at that, too. The silent treatment. The cold shoulder. Both of them were cold, in fact, and sharp, and proud. Jim waited, but Spock didn’t even blink.

Finally, after proving his point, Jim let Spock do the same. Quid pro quo, not that Vulcan was giving Jim much of that.

He closed his eyes.

‘Maintain the rhythm of your breathing,’ Spock instructed. ‘Do not allow yourself to become distracted.’

‘Kinda hard when you’re sitting across from me. You distract me, Spock. Constantly.’

‘Maintain that rhythm regardless of any distractions you may perceive.’

‘And we spent the entire night together—me in your bed. I mean, how am I supposed to stop thinking about _that_?’

‘The more acute the distraction, the more vital achievement of tranquility must be.’

Spock wasn’t taking the bait—not that Jim expected him to. There was tranquility inside of him somewhere, sure, but touching on that silence wasn’t the most pleasant of prospects. It was quiet inside of him, but the absence of structured thought allowed for all the unstructured things to come flooding in. Emotion, mostly. There was plenty of that for somebody whose brother was being held by Romulans while Jim maintained his rhythmic breathing.

The way to inner peace for somebody like Spock meant anything but for somebody like Jim.

Or so Jim had always suspected. It was just a hunch, but Jim’s hunches were usually on target.

Finding out for certain when he wasn’t alone—when Spock was there to witness any adverse reaction—wasn’t the way to get it done.

Jim breathed in loudly and out again. In and out; still loudly. He cracked open one eye to find both of Spock’s were shut, his chest and shoulders rising and falling.

Jim slid an inch closer and resettled. He took a deep breath, adjusting each inhalation and exhalation to fall in line with Spock’s. He could hear his heartbeat. He could still feel Spock inside of him—giving nothing, observing, feeling, seeing. Like fingers ghosting along the curved bone of Jim’s skull from the inside.

He was getting distracted. He’d told Spock that was going happen, but Spock hadn’t listened. Maybe he’d figured Jim was just being his usual, charming self, facetious to the extreme. It’d taken Jim a lot of work to maneuver himself into a position where no one would take him seriously; knowing what to do now that he was there was a different story. Sure, he’d proven himself basically capable as a man who could thwart an assassin from fifty paces, but Vulcans were more interested in the mind than the body.

And Jim had let Spock know he had a distracted mind at best.

That was what Spock had seen in his head. It was what had him keeping his distance, but it was also what was drawing him in.

‘Your breathing is erratic.’ Spock’s voice was low but distant, coming from the depths of a trance. When Jim peeked again, he could see that Spock’s eyes were still closed. ‘You should now seek to bring your emotions under control.’

‘I’m in control,’ Jim said.

Spock did not reply. His eyebrow hitched briefly in place, silently judging Jim’s statement instead.

‘I am,’ Jim insisted.

Spock returned to deep, slow, uncommunicative breathing; maybe he thought he was leading by example. He wasn’t far off. Jim watched him, eyelids dropping to narrow his vision to a slit.

He matched the rhythm of his breathing to the rise and fall of Spock’s chest. It didn’t transport him to another place, but it did calm him down. Despite the deep intake of air into his lungs, he wasn’t getting enough oxygen. So far, meditation was just making him lightheaded.

Maybe that was Spock’s aim all along. Get him good and loopy so he could finally get the upper hand.

He wasn’t far off-base about Jim and his trust issues.

Just to prove to himself that Spock didn’t know everything, Jim shut his eyes again. He stretched out his arms to settle his palms over his knees, wiggling his fingers in the air. If he pretended he was listening for assassins instead of trying to quiet his mind, it wasn’t an impossible feat to tune everything else out.  _That_ could be a useful skill. Whoever was trying to take Spock down—and Jim wasn’t  _entirely_ convinced it was all the ex-fiancée—they’d proven themselves nothing if not persistent.

They were gonna try again. And if Jim was gonna preserve his alliance with the Vulcans, then he needed to keep Spock alive long enough to get Sam out of the grasp of the Romulans.

Which meant indulging him in his weird little morning rituals.

In, out. Slowly, painfully slowly, Jim’s lungs began the process of readjusting to the quality of the Vulcan air. It was low in oxygen; Jim hadn’t found the time to let his internal processes adjust. Adjusting meant comfort and if Jim wasn’t on edge every second, then he wasn’t sharp. He wasn’t ready.

He had to be both. It wasn’t his ass on the line. It was his ass on the meditation mat, and it was starting to tingle because of how thin the damn thing was.

Preparation didn’t have anything to do with meditation, not in Jim’s world. He’d hit the ground running—same as always. He’d worked against his body, his own kind of stubbornness. Spock might’ve been unyielding, but admittedly, Jim was the same.

Now that was weird.

Meditating on their similarities was a waste of time better spent fine-tuning his senses to pick up on every last thing. He was operating at a disadvantage. Vulcans had everything on him—strength, hearing, hell, even telepathy. So he had to be better than that, and he had to keep working in order to surpass them.

Spock’s breathing continued, setting the pace. Jim fell into it, lulled by the predictability, the constancy. In and out and in—like there was anything actually that reliable in the universe.

Maybe there was. Out there, somewhere, _really_ far away.

But here, in Jim’s part of the galaxy, the shit that followed him around, even his brain couldn’t imagine what that was like.

Out.

There was something sexual—Jim’s mouth twitched into a wicked grin—about that kind of steady rhythm. They were sharing the same air, just processing it in different ways. Out and in. It was obviously a matter of perspective, of chosen perspective, which came first. In or out.

Sam would have laughed at the whole thing with a serious look in his eyes and a tight set to his jaw. Then he would have put a hand on Jim’s shoulder and asked him what the hell he thought he was doing, if all of this was actually worth it. Just the fact that he would’ve asked answered the question. It was worth it. Sam was the only thing worth all of this.

Out. In. Jim had to stop thinking about Sam. He focused on the slightest of breezes that stirred the stone beads on their strings, the way that tiny shiver of a sound made the hairs on the back of Jim’s neck and the backs of his arms stand on end. He was attuned to the whole thing—just not to Spock, who was cool and remote, and might still have echoes of the stuff inside Jim’s head bouncing through his own.

Jim wanted to peek again, but his eyelids were too heavy. He was in the trance—somehow, he’d slipped into it without realizing. His hands were heavy, weighting his knees down to the mat. The rest of his body was tingly but it didn’t bother him; it was just another detail he noticed. Where his skin ended and the thin air began.

There was this great, black nothingness just on the horizon of his consciousness. A real trance; true meditative achievement.

It wasn’t Jim’s.

It was Spock’s.

Jim opened his eyes.

This time, Spock’s were open, too.

‘Do I get a passing grade?’ Jim asked. His voice threatened to shake but he turned it into something husky instead. ‘For a first timer, I mean. You took my first time with this meditation stuff, Spock.’

‘That you asked this question suggests you seek what should not be sought,’ Spock replied.

‘Can I help it if I was raised to appreciate results?’ Jim asked. ‘If I’m not being evaluated, then what’s the point?’

‘Again,’ Spock said, ‘it is evident that the true purpose of this exercise has eluded your grasp.’

‘A lot of things elude my grasp,’ Jim replied. ‘Various parts of your anatomy, for starters.’

‘I would prefer it if you would refrain from indulging in pointless discourse with me,’ Spock said.

Jim yawned, rubbing the sweat from the back of his neck. He needed a good sonic shower. After last night’s tossing and turning and waking up in a bed that was obviously Spock’s, he needed about three sonic showers. And that was before he’d slipped into Spock’s trance.

Their minds, together as one.

That was about as intimate as two people could get. In terms of  _touching organs,_ Jim was ahead of the game in a major way. And yet Spock still didn’t blink when he came near. He wouldn’t even give Jim the courtesy of flinching away, like he thought Jim’s touch might do something overpowering to his senses.

Jim could overpower him, if Spock would just give him a fair shot at it. He leaned in, drawing his fingers up the muscled line of Spock’s calf.

‘Maybe it doesn’t seem so pointless to me.’

Spock’s leg twitched. At first, Jim thought he might be getting somewhere, but it was just Spock getting up. The morning light cast stern shadows over his face. From Jim’s angle, he got a good look at Spock’s throat and chin; he was still convinced he’d look good with a beard.

No one ever listened to his ideas. That was how he’d wound up by himself making his own allies on Vulcan.

‘You would do well to focus on the feelings you experienced while in meditation,’ Spock said. He crossed to his bed, straightening the covers where Jim had mussed them.

And that was officially the strangest sight he’d seen since waking up on Vulcan: Prince Spock making his very own bed.

‘I don’t think you should lecture me on how to achieve enlightenment.’ Jim stretched his legs out in front of him, leaning forward to limber up. Whatever health benefits meditation might have had, they were outweighed by the stiffness in Jim’s joints. ‘Pretty sure that’s one of those personal things, you know. Everyone has to come to it on their own terms.’

Jim glanced over his shoulder to find Spock bent over the bed, smoothing the last of Jim’s wrinkles out of the sheets. Now it was like Jim hadn’t spent the night in there—although Jim had a feeling those sheets smelled of his skin, of his hair, of his sweat. It was something Spock wouldn’t be able to deny.

That, and it would rub off on Spock’s fingers, another little mark Jim left that couldn’t be seen.

Microscopic. But hopefully as effective as it was small.

Anyway, it was there. Jim was there.

‘I would’ve done that eventually, being your love slave and all,’ Jim said. ‘I’ve got manners. I’m gonna be a _good_ representative of my planet. But I can’t say that I mind the view from here.’

‘If you intend to spend the day here, reconsidering meditative techniques, then remain as you are,’ Spock replied. ‘However, if it is your intention to follow me and attend my daily business, then you should not.’

Jim was on his feet quickly enough to risk dizziness. Sometimes, Vulcan didn’t feel like a planet with gravity. He reached out for something to steady himself and his fingertips brushed the beaded curtain, which made its own kind of music.

‘This here to warn against assassination attempts while you’re enlightening yourself?’ Jim asked, wrapping a strand around his forefinger.

‘I am ready to depart,’ Spock replied. ‘If you are not, know that I do not wait.’

Jim saluted, untangled himself from the string, and followed Spock out of his room. He waved at both of the guards when Spock ignored them—Vulcan or not, they had to be bored and tired and contemplating acts of treason after standing outside Spock’s innermost chamber all night long without relief—and they ignored him, which was exactly what Jim expected of them.

He hadn’t done it for them, not really. He’d done it for himself. Every little motion made him more and more real against a landscape determined to ignore his behavior, no matter how ludicrous. Especially when ludicrous. The more ludicrous he was, the more likely he was to be ignored.

The guards fell into line behind them, their rhythmic footsteps sounding like a funeral march. Jim opened the front of his shirt and tugged at the fabric so that, while he walked, fresh, dry air cooled the sweat on his bare skin. Spock was wearing his cloak again, a Vulcan _fuck you_ to the weather that would’ve been badass if Jim could wrap his head around it.

As hard as he tried, he couldn’t get a read off Spock. The bond—if it hadn’t worn off already—was only a one-way connection.

Jim thought a few choice things in Spock’s direction about the view he got from behind, then let it go and took in the sights.

At least he hadn’t been left behind to stew for the majority of the day, having to pretend he wasn’t waiting for anything that would break the monotony, desperate for Spock to walk through the door. He’d taken the first big step toward being a part of day-to-day routine in this Vulcan palace.

Routine that involved fewer assassination attempts than Jim was expecting, given the number he’d already encountered.

The first half of the day passed without incident. After the third meeting of state, Jim almost hoped somebody would show up raving mad and brandishing a flaming lirpa. Anything to break the monotony of reasoned debate and slow, well-rationed, logical conversation.

Vulcan was a cruel, inhospitable planet. Its people were just as ruthless—but they were also ruthlessly restrained, which the desert wasn’t. They held back. Jim was bored, mostly because he had to listen. For anything; for everything. Stuff he could use. Stuff that might wake him up.

If he didn’t have to listen, this would have been great practice for his meditation. Tuning out never seemed so tempting as when Spock trapped Jim in an afternoon consultation about the irrigation systems of the planet, how resources were drying up due to a hot summer and off-world supply ships kept getting shot down by the Romulan-Klingon Alliance.

Jim would’ve thought that a conversation about intergalactic conflict would at least pick up interest—but no, the delegation was way too focused on reciting their reserves down to the decimal point, followed by the projected number of what would be needed in the coming months, which was  _then_ followed by a calculation of the likelihood of being able to meet those standards, should the Alliance attacks increase in aggression.

Jim had never before heard a war reduced to such boring, basic terminology.

It did make one important fact patently clear, though.

Vulcan was in need of a more generous partnership than the one they had already entered into. Earth, as the center of strength for the Terran Empire, had always been rich in resources. Maybe soon the Vulcans would find themselves in the right position to renegotiate the terms of their treaty.

Say, if they rescued one of Earth’s missing princes from the clutches of their enemies.

Yeah. Jim figured that’d probably do it.

So even though Spock had been blowing cold on him for weeks now, Jim was in a better bargaining position than he’d thought.

Jim kicked Spock under the table once the delegation had got to its feet, making their way to the door in a laborious process that seemed tailor-made to drive anyone with human sensibilities out of his mind.

Jim was getting there. He just didn’t want to give everyone around him the satisfaction of seeing it firsthand.

Spock didn’t react to the kick. Like the sly, infuriating bastard he was, he continued to focus on his PADD, flicking from screen to screen to review several reports at once.

‘Dry summer.’ Jim leaned his chin on one hand, leering closer to Spock’s personal monitor. ‘That must be why I’m feeling woozy.’

‘The rise in temperature is not beyond the bounds of our ability to manage internally,’ Spock replied. Without looking, naturally. ‘If you are dehydrated, you should monitor your intake of fluids more carefully.’

‘Says the guy who doesn’t sweat.’ Jim unfolded himself from the chair, reaching across the long table to pour himself a glass of something cold and syrupy from the pitcher.

It wasn’t water. But it quenched his thirst.

‘I’m replenished.’ Jim pressed the side of the glass to the side of his face, sucking every bit of cool moisture from it that he could. It came away foggy and warm. ‘Want to unplenish me again? Deplenish? You can plenish me any way you like, for the record.’

Spock’s fingers continued to move, the flash of data streams passing brightly across his face. He read fast. Too bad he didn’t move fast.

‘You don’t even spar with me anymore,’ Jim continued. The syrupy stuff had an aftertaste. It might have been alcoholic. Vulcan personalities were starting to make sense given what Jim had learned about Vulcan food. ‘I get restless, Spock, unless I can be active once in a while.’

The screen of Spock’s PADD went black. He set it down on the table with a click and when Jim scooped it up one-handed, he had the chance to appreciate the excellent security encryption Spock had probably designed himself. It was nice work. Jim would have told Spock, despite his aversion to compliments on principle, but Spock was already standing.

Jim kept a hold on the PADD to take a crack at busting in later. While Spock was meditating, Jim would do his version of the same—hacking encryption. Now that was the closest thing a guy could get to enlightenment. It was definitely the closest thing to pleasure Jim was getting on Vulcan.

‘You require action,’ Spock said.

He was wearing that cloak on purpose. All that fur made Jim’s skin prickle just from looking at it.

‘I wouldn’t say no to some,’ Jim replied. ‘I’ve been waiting—not patiently, but you already know that.’

‘Then you will have it.’ Spock made for the door.

Jim kept to his side, skin prickling for a different reason: curiosity, a tinge of excitement, the flush of uncertainty. They weren’t heading in the direction of Spock’s private quarters; Jim had memorized the way first thing so he’d always have a point of reference, the illusion of having somewhere to return to. Only they’d gone west when they should have gone south and the hallways here were open, blooming outward to a spiraling staircase, skinny, without bannisters, leading them downward.

They were heading for the sparring arena.

Jim’s bruises had healed. He had sore spots, a few stiff muscles from the hard Vulcan bed he’d spent the night in, but other than that, he was in fighting condition. He didn’t mind having the chance to get Spock on his back on the sand again. It was a break from the monotony and the ceremony of the day.

But when they stepped inside the arena, they weren’t alone. Spock’s two guards were there, tall and imposing under the setting sun.

‘Kinky,’ Jim said.

‘My superior skills notwithstanding,’ Spock replied, ‘it is unlikely that together we will be able to defeat two fully trained Vulcan warriors.’

‘You calculated those odds with me as your handicap, huh?’ Jim asked. ‘I’m glad you’re thinking of me, Spock, but I have to say, I’m a little offended.’

‘I always calculate the odds,’ Spock said.

Jim shrugged out of his shirt, using it to wrap around Spock’s PADD and protect it from the sand. He cracked his neck, bouncing on the balls of his feet. The Vulcan warriors—trained, his brain reminded him—were big; Jim focused on the weird, light silver armor they were wearing to make them seem a little smaller. The same tactics Jim used on Spock would hardly apply, but Jim was flexible. That was his number one selling point right there; he had to make good on his promise.

‘I like to defy them,’ Jim said.

‘Of this fact, I am aware.’ Spock removed his cloak and folded it. Jim thought, briefly, that it wouldn’t be so bad to be treated with that same precision and care—if it came with heat instead of clinical efficiency.

‘So I’ll take the two on the right,’ Jim said, ‘and you take— Well, take a seat?’

Spock didn’t laugh. His lips didn’t so much as twitch. His eyes didn’t sparkle. But there was a familiarity in the look he gave Jim, a bland sort of tolerance Jim was coming to expect. It wasn’t friendship exactly, but Spock was getting used to having him around. One way or another, Jim was wearing him down.

And really, wasn’t that the first key to any good alliance?

‘You would do well to conserve your breath for the impending struggle,’ Spock informed him.

That was all the warning Jim had before the Vulcan guards struck. So much for all that Vulcan honor and ceremony. Jim had been expecting an hour of jingling cymbals and chanting before they actually got down to anything.

His mistake.

He ducked and threw himself to one side, kicking up sand in his wake as the guard on the left lunged.

‘They’re gonna go easy on us, right?’ Jim laughed on principle, dust in his throat.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t take Spock’s advice. He was already panting, breathing hard as his body instinctively tried to suck in the oxygen it was lacking. But he didn’t have the benefit of a mind-meld to know what Spock was thinking. And if they were gonna fight together, they had to be in sync. Jim couldn’t think of a way to communicate with him other than shouting across the sparring ground.

Spock ignored him. Maybe he didn’t think Jim could take the truth, that even loyal Vulcan guards wouldn’t go easy on their own royalty in an arena setting.

They were big guys—not overly muscular, but they moved with speed and precision. Jim just wanted to know what the backup plan was in case they accidentally took out Spock. He wasn’t gonna take the fall for that one.

Jim watched Spock duck behind one of the decorative columns at the corner of the square, timing his retreat so that the guard attacking him connected with the stone instead of Spock’s body. Despite the similarities, Jim knew Spock wasn’t quite as hard as stone.

In the split-second of his distraction—watching the fight where it didn’t affect him personally—the second Vulcan guard grabbed Jim and flipped him over his hip. Jim hit the sand hard, the impact winding him. Given his already pathetic intake of air, that could’ve been it. Down for the count when the fight had barely started.

Jim forced himself to roll, pushing himself up with his hands and leaping back as the Vulcan guard hit the space where he’d been with a concentrated strike, designed to disable a nerve cluster.

They were unarmed, but that didn’t mean they weren’t playing for keeps.

So Jim was winded, but he’d avoided compounding the damage into something more final. He also knew he couldn’t spare his attention, couldn’t split his focus by checking out where Spock was and what he was doing. _How_ he was doing, even.

As much as it was easier to worry about somebody else than to worry about himself—at least when he wasn’t exactly trained in the fine art of Vulcan sparring—Jim had no real choice.

What he did have was experience. He’d fought Spock before. He knew how Spock thought and he also knew that Spock had a rogue human element behind his strategies that these guards didn’t, couldn’t possess. They’d behave logically. They would always choose the logical approach. That kind of intelligence could be intimidating, but Jim could use it against them, the same as he’d used it against Spock.

These guys didn’t have the advantage of a chance to adapt.

They didn’t really seem all that adaptable.

These were good odds, as far as Jim was concerned.

He took one gritty, wheezing breath to calculate the next swing and its point of impact; before it connected he ducked, tucked, and rolled. He slipped between the guard’s tall legs and came out the other side in a spray of sand, which beaded his eyelashes but wouldn’t get in his eyes until he blinked. He held off on that until he’d kicked at the tendon in the guard’s ankle with his booted heel, using the element of surprise to wipe his eyes with his forearm.

Momentary blindness.

Somehow, he sensed the guard turning on him anyway.

He found a pressure point just below the knee and went for it with his knuckles. He had to use speed and agility to his favor. Tall and imposing meant a hell of a lot in a quiet meeting room, but there was room here and now for Jim to maneuver and he took it, keeping his center of gravity low. He’d never felt more grounded. Rapid-fire strikes, three in swift succession, targeted below the guard’s other knee brought him down to eye-level, where he caught Jim between throat and shoulder with the side of his hand. One chop. That was all he needed.

Jim saw white—no stars, no darkness, just searing, blinding white.

It was over in less than a second. The sky resolved itself above Jim, pale and hazy. Something told him to roll and he did, his mouth full of sand, his left arm completely numb. A thud to the right of him suggested another missed opportunity and Jim staggered to his feet in time to see Spock fall on the guard from behind, no longer engaged by his own partner. He was beautiful, terrifying, and merciless.

Yeah, it was impressive, but that wasn’t the whole story.

The guard Spock had been fighting until the switch was already recovering, moving on Spock as quick as heat lightning in one of the famous Vulcan night-storms. Jim intercepted him from the side, catching him around the waist and tackling him to the sand. He went for the same point of contact that had been used against him—a pressure point on a tendon between the neck and the clavicle—and brought his elbow down, the weight of his body behind it.

The Vulcan’s eyes widened. He froze, muscles stiff. Jim couldn’t count on that to last, so he turned to exploit another weakness.

Hands.

Jim grabbed the guard by his wrist, gripped his fingers, and twisted the thumb back.

‘Enough.’ Spock’s voice rang clear through the air. ‘The terms of victory have been met.’

Jim wasn’t convinced. It went against every instinct he had not to keep fighting when he had the upper hand. Speaking of which—the Vulcan hand in his own trembled, a sure sign his tendons and ligaments had been pushed to the breaking point. Still, down on one knee in front of Jim, his face was stoic, like he was overseeing a council meeting and not being forced into defeat.

That was all Jim had time to absorb before a fingers pinched down hard on his trapezius muscle between neck and shoulder, squeezing a nerve cluster that made Jim’s whole right side go numb.

He dropped the Vulcan guard; the guard, in turn, dropped to the sand.

‘What the  _hell?_ ’ Jim whipped around, no small feat when he was all loose limbs on one side of his body. At least his mouth was still working. He felt lightheaded, but no more so than usual, which meant that whatever kind of nerve pinch Spock had used on him, it was a modified version of the one they’d trained Starfleet officers to monitor and counteract on Earth.

Jim hadn’t seen it coming. He’d been so caught up in the part where they were working together as a team that he had forgotten they were still on Spock’s turf and Jim was still living by Spock’s rules.

‘I said enough.’ Spock cut a pretty impressive figure standing over them both, Jim and the guard, with the hot Vulcan sun at his back. Someone who didn’t know him as well as Jim might have even assumed he’d taken that position on purpose, for maximum dramatic effect. ‘You did not comply.’

The feeling was starting to return to Jim’s muscles. His arm and leg tingled under the skin as his circulation picked up, like a hundred grains of sand had worked their way into his blood. He rolled his bare shoulder, dropping into a lunge to stretch out his dead leg.

‘I was caught up in the moment,’ Jim said without looking up.

‘You are dismissed.’ Spock turned his gaze to both guards, neither of whom had moved even a centimeter from where they lay.

At Spock’s words they sprang up in unison. It would have been hilarious, seeing them rise like daisies, if Jim wasn’t still half-dead on one side. He didn’t have space to be laughing at anyone, unless it was himself.

He rubbed his hand down his bad arm, coaxing the life back into it one segment at a time, joint by joint.

‘Let me guess,’ he said. ‘This is the part where you tell me my temper will be my undoing, or some helpful Vulcan platitude like that. Am I right?’

‘You were tempted,’ Spock replied simply, ‘to deploy your emotionalism as a weapon.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You are not excused.’ Spock nodded to the guards to imply they were, however, and they left in silence, although Jim had a feeling they were waiting outside. Standing guard. Because—what else? Their prince whaled on them and just like that, they were back to regular duty, no questions asked, no mutinous thoughts, no anger and no fear. Not that Jim could see, anyway. ‘You considered, no matter how briefly, that a means of securing victory over your sparring partner may well be found in utilizing a rush of emotional chaos, sending it through the hand-to-hand telepathic link you could easily establish with a single touch. However effective this may have been against said partner, it would have also flooded _our_ link, having a similar effect on my mental faculties, and therefore it was never a viable option. Jim, you cannot engage in tactics that would be detrimental to our success. Intelligently, you should have been able to deduce this likelihood for yourself.’

Jim’s body had finally caught up with itself, but his brain was still down in the sand somewhere. With all his blood rushing back to his limbs, not much was spared for the functions of his gray matter. ‘I didn’t—’ he began.

That wasn’t true.

It had been there, a nascent thought. He hadn’t even formed it for himself, not completely, but it had been coming to him—the idea taking root the second he gripped the guard’s hand in his own. He could do more damage than just the physical kind. He could take the guard out of the equation by incapacitating him with human emotionalism, something he wouldn’t be prepared to handle.

‘How’d you know that?’ Jim asked.

If Spock could tell what Jim was thinking before Jim could think it through, then he also had to know that there was honesty in Jim’s voice. As a question, it had given away too many answers.

Spock was silent.

‘We’re connected,’ Jim said.

Maybe it did go both ways. Maybe Jim could tell what Spock was thinking—at least before he said it, if not before he thought it.

It made him feel slow, not a feeling he liked. But he’d caught up.

‘Huh,’ Jim said.

He turned around, staring at the sand in front of his feet until his vision blurred. It had happened. The plan he’d needed, the plan he’d created, was already in motion. It always had been. It was a damn good plan, that was why, but if he was being honest, having a stranger peeking into his brain was insane. No privacy; no room to breathe. And there was also no room to panic, since Spock would be able to pick up on that all too easily.

Jim reached for his shirt and the PADD, unwrapping the fabric and wiping the sweat off the back of his neck with it. ‘Well,’ he said, filling his lungs with air. ‘Welcome to my brain, Spock. Hope you enjoy your stay.’

*


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Human and Vulcan desire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the late chapter! Yesterday was wildly busy and knocked me down for the count. Hope you enjoy this, despite its belated appearance!

Human desire and Vulcan desire were not without parallels. One point of curiosity was patently clear, as far as Spock’s current sampling was concerned:

Wanting often suffered in relation to having.

Jim had eaten his evening meal raveningly, then retired with Spock’s PADD to Spock’s bed without offering his familiar and undaunted vocal repartee. What he had insisted upon so passionately for weeks had been granted to him, and his response to success had been uncharacteristic silence.

Now, it seemed, he had set his sights to another complicated task: hacking Spock’s private security system. His nose wrinkled; his brow furrowed; his features illuminated by the light from the PADD.

As had occurred more than once before in Jim’s presence, Spock found himself indecisive. There was a part of him that was tempted to inform Jim that he was wasting his time—that Spock had calculated his odds of circumventing Vulcan security protocols, and they were abysmal. Yet Spock remained silent, observing Jim’s lacking progress with the nagging desire to intervene.

Spock was not unused to warring impulses. As a child of two worlds, he was naturally predisposed to seeing both sides of a situation whether he wished to or not. However, being accustomed to the sensation did not make it any more comfortable for Spock to experience.

Jim made it difficult for him to lower his guard. That was the heart of their dynamic; its very crux.

Perhaps Spock was drawn to Jim in part because Jim’s presence stirred in Spock a reminder of the disparate parts of himself that he sought to reconcile. Jim presented him with a healthy reminder not to shy away from his nature, though this reminder took a peculiar form.

Jim poked the pink end of his tongue out from the corner of his mouth. As he failed to pair this with solicitous eye contact, Spock could reason that this was not an intentional expression. Rather, it seemed to be a side effect of his concentration. The creases in his brow were pronounced, illuminated by a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead.

Whether stationary or in motion, Jim was damp.

Spock did not know how he could tolerate it. The human threshold for comfort was far lower than that of a Vulcan, yet they existed daily in a state that no Vulcan would find themselves able to bear willingly.

They would have managed, of course. They would simply never manage to forget their discomfort. In short, it was not logical.

But that was no longer the first word that came to mind when Spock sought to describe Jim.

At last, Jim’s gaze found Spock’s over the edge of his borrowed PADD. In the reflected light, the blue shade of his irises remained undiminished; instead, it was merely distorted, deepened, like the quality of river water as it passed from shallows to rapids.

‘You’re staring,’ Jim said.

‘I am observing your progress,’ Spock acknowledged.

Jim sucked his tongue back into his mouth. He touched it to his teeth, making a wet sound. ‘What you’re really doing is making it hard to concentrate.’

Spock did not remove his gaze from Jim’s face or from the PADD he was holding. Jim, for his part, twisted and rolled onto his back.

He accomplished this with a sigh that seemed to suggest he was suffering greatly for the effort. There was a large, mottled purple bruise swelling at the small of his back.

He had gone down on the sand hard because Spock had instructed his guards to show them no preferential treatment, no misplaced mercy. If the test was to prove anything worthwhile then it was essential that the stakes should be real. Jim had hesitated; he had wasted time watching Spock because he had not trusted, or had not known to trust, that Spock was more than capable of looking after himself.

Jim had also questioned the very thing that he had sought to find on Vulcan: their bond. He had not known its parameters; he had not even understood fully that it was real and that it had already been initiated.

That was to be expected. It was an unknown practice among humans, another reason why Spock had been cautious. He had drawn up a list, then ascertained whether or not Jim was worthy, ready, capable—suitable as an ally and an asset.

And so he was. His attitude and his unpredictability aside, Jim’s value was no longer in question.

‘And you know, I _have_ been wondering,’ Jim said, without precursor, ‘whether or not I’ll be able to get anything from you in return.’

Spock did not have to request clarification. Still, he chose to await it, knowing that by doing so, clarification would be forthcoming.

‘I mean, you knew when I was in trouble,’ Jim continued. ‘Jumping on that guard down there, leaving me to finish off yours. That’ll come in handy, considering how many people seem to want you dead. So when am I gonna pick up stuff from your end, or did you make sure that _wasn’t_ part of the bargain when you—’ Jim paused to look back, half his face in shadow, the rest brightly illuminated—but also hidden from view. ‘—came inside me.’

‘Innuendo aside,’ Spock replied, ‘that is not the nature of the bond. Your telepathic strengths are not equal to mine; that is a fact even you cannot deny. In time, you will find yourself growing more receptive in return, but it will not be instinctive.’

‘I had no idea Vulcans were so big on instinct.’

‘They are not,’ Spock said. ‘Not in the way you would interpret “big on”, certainly. You, however, place a great deal of trust in yours. Therefore I believed it critical to inform you that those instincts will not serve you in this matter. You cannot allow yourself to rely on them to do so.’

‘You say that like humans aren’t the ones who serve their instincts.’ Jim shook his head, still distracted from what would have been a clear path to flirtation by a task he had not yet completed to his satisfaction. At least, though he provided distraction, he was not as easily distracted as one might expect. ‘It’s definitely not the other way around.’

‘You are more self-aware than I had at first assumed.’

‘And you know that now ‘cause you’re all up in my business.’ Jim ducked back to the PADD. Spock could sense the agitation but also the structured thought beneath his eagerness to succeed. Jim’s desires, in this instance, contributed to his potential, rather than detracting from it. How badly he wished to prove himself had honed his focus to a keen point.

Spock returned to his separate business. Jim’s progress would not be his concern until such a time as he achieved his goal. The odds were against him.

That had not stopped Jim before.

Four hours, thirteen minutes, fifty three seconds later, when Spock was meditating to clear his mind of the clutter that Jim’s additional emotions provided, the curtain shifted, suggesting that Jim had left the PADD behind. Spock opened his eyes to find Jim standing above him.

‘So this meditation stuff,’ Jim said.

He had not triumphed over the encryption.

Not yet.

‘Is that gonna train me for our link?’ Jim asked.

Spock drew in a measured breath, allowing his chest to rise and fall visibly. It was not impossible to achieve peace of mind while taking in visual stimuli but it did work to impede his progress. In order to simultaneously parse Jim’s intentions as well as maintain his total composure, it was necessary to operate at a higher level of conscious functioning than Spock normally used, especially while meditating. In short: being around Jim made Spock work harder to generate more effective mental pathways.

He was a valued asset. That did not speak to the depth of their trust or the quality of their relationship. Rather, it indicated that Spock knew how to appreciate the benefit in something when it was neither wholly positive nor wholly negative.

‘Greater focus would attune you to the parts of yourself which have not yet seen development,’ Spock replied.

Jim rolled his eyes. He did not sit down.

‘The brain is an organ and not a muscle,’ Spock said. ‘Nevertheless, it requires regular practice and exercise.’

‘Mental reps.’ Jim nodded, crossing his arms. He pushed his hands into fists beneath the bulk of his biceps, making them flex. It created an illusion of size that was unnecessary. Jim’s body was not lacking in musculature for his height and weight. Spock already knew its boundaries, its shapes and geometries; no pretense would fool him. ‘I know all about working out, Spock.’

‘You sought an answer to your question and I have granted you one,’ Spock said. ‘If you will not sit, then you may return to your activities and allow me to return to my meditation.’

‘ _Oh_  no.’ Jim shook his head, touching one hand down to the floor in order to lower himself. ‘I’m not letting you get the all the benefits from our little connection here. You said it yourself: I’m already starting with a handicap.’

‘That is not what I said,’ Spock informed him.

‘You implied.’ Jim stretched his arms over his head, then twisted his torso slowly from side to side, wincing as the movement tugged at his bruise. ‘I know a challenge when I hear one, Spock. And I  _never_  back down from a challenge.’

‘An admirable trait,’ Spock said, ‘though it may be corrupted by obstinacy.’

He did not recoil as Jim sought to invade his personal space, sitting close enough so their knees touched—so that Spock could hear the intake of Jim’s breath as his own when he sought to fill his lungs.

Against the atmospheric disadvantages posed to him by his presence on Vulcan, Jim had continued to perform admirably. His desire to better himself had not gone unnoticed; it was a suitable avenue for his boundless energy, a better employment than directionless, goalless action.

Spock had yet to ascertain whether he could be coaxed to channel his rage into productive improvements instead of mindless assault.

In order to make that discovery, he would have to search more deeply. He would have to probe.

Given what he knew of Jim’s personality, he would also have to avoid using the word ‘probe’ aloud where Jim could overhear it and exploit it in the service of personal entertainment.

Jim’s enjoyment of language—and his proclivity to toy with language—was another indicator of his not insignificant energy. His knees bumped Spock’s and his fingertips followed soon after, tips brushing the shells of Spock’s kneecaps; there was a simple explanation for that touch, as Jim’s hands rested low on his thighs in an attempted mirror of Spock’s position, but Jim’s actions could be just as precise, just as calculated, as any of Spock’s. It would be unwise to presume that any contact between them was accidental rather than premeditated.

In this instance, contact between them was not undesirable. It would only serve to facilitate a connection that was still relatively unexplored. It held promise, and though Vulcans did not generally rely upon promise, they could certainly recognize the potential housed within.

Spock reached forward and took Jim’s left hand with his right. The action was not what Jim was expecting. He tensed, the muscles in his arm hardening, before he settled into the lines where their bodies met completely: Spock’s palm flat against Jim’s palm, the soft undersides of their fingers flattened each to each. Every wrinkle in their skin and every whorl in their fingerprints crossed and re-crossed each other, forming no true parallels and instead creating new bisections. The differences, in this instance, were of paramount importance.

Jim huffed a snort of a breath, which Spock felt against his face.

‘You coming on to me right now, Spock?’ he asked.

‘Facetiousness has no place here, on this mat, at this time,’ Spock replied.

Jim swallowed. Spock heard it. His chest rose and fell; Spock also heard that. Every hum of heat in his blood and stiffness of his joints was a sound to be heard. Every blink; every fine tremor of his lashes; the shadows where they landed on his cheeks as his eyes fell shut all made sound. His dendrites made sound. Nerve impulses and signals could be fine-tuned, operating along wavelengths, flushing heat and truth, palm to palm, sound to sound. Spock listened.

Jim was not, in turn, listening, but this was no doubt due to the fact that he did not know how to listen.

His instincts at least drew him to adjust the pattern of his breath so that it did not intersect Spock’s pattern of breath; eventually, with enough practice, they would be able to breathe as one. It no longer provided a distraction, which would have suggested there was more than one person in the room. There was only one pattern of breath.

It was a start.

They had begun.

Impatience; light; so much sound. The difficulty was not in hearing but in determining what to hear. It did not lie in what could not be seen but in deciding where to look and also how to see. With no choice, no confines, other than _everything_ , it was all too easy to be overwhelmed.

With what Spock already knew of Jim, he had evidence enough to predict that Jim would not narrow his focus. He would be proud and stubborn. He would attempt to see and hear it all and in doing so he would come away with nothing.

This was why Spock needed, for the present, to remain in control. He could not succumb to the full potential of the meld.

Not yet.

 _Jim_ , Spock thought.

Jim wrenched free immediately, eyes wide. The sudden absence of his sounds and his sights and all his human senses left Spock, for a two-hundredth of a second, empty.

Then, he continued to breathe, lungs swelling with fresh oxygen, and his perspective returned to him. Jim was staring across the distance between them as though Spock had struck him. He was sweating, a trickle of moisture passing from his hairline down along the thin skin of his temple. Spock found himself tracking its passage before his attention could be drawn elsewhere.

‘What the hell was  _that?_ ’ Jim asked. He rubbed the back of his hand against his mouth, leaning to put distance between them.

‘We connected,’ Spock said.

He would have assumed this to be obvious, but Jim was only human and not possessed of a strong predisposition toward telepathic ability. It would have been imprecise to state that he was  _all wrong_  for it, Jim’s favored term, and yet the facts in his favor were not compelling. Jim was intelligent, but any capacity he held for intuition had been thoroughly neglected by any training and tutors he might have studied under on Earth.

Jim passed his palm over his face, fingers reaching his hairline and wiping away the drop of sweat that Spock had been observing.

‘Like a mind-meld?’

‘Not quite,’ Spock explained. ‘Our minds joined, but they were not as one. Rather, you were able to experience the benefits of our link while remaining aware of your sense of self. This, perhaps, is why you reacted as you did. The sensation was not something for which you had prepared yourself.’

‘Yeah,’ Jim agreed, ‘I guess that’s one way of putting it. “Blindsided me” is another.’

He blinked, pinching the bridge of his nose, then rubbing his eyes. He had now covered every feature of his face. When he lowered his hands his pupils remained dilated, lips parted so he could breathe through his mouth in addition to his nose. Slowly, he returned to his former position, closing the deliberate distance he had chosen to maintain.

Whatever shock he had suffered, he was already adapting and coming to terms with it.

‘Jesus, Spock, you could’ve  _warned_  me,’ Jim said.

‘I could not be certain of the effects of our joining,’ Spock replied. ‘Such an undertaking is not often practiced between Vulcans and other, less telepathically-inclined races. There was no way for me to know comprehensively what would occur.’

‘So you opted not to say anything at all.’ Jim nodded, lifting his hands to crack the stiff joints of his knuckles. ‘That… Sounds like you, actually. I don’t know what else I was expecting.’

‘To be presented with that which you expect at all times creates only a false sense of security,’ Spock said. ‘It would provide you only with stasis. I do not believe that is what you desire.’

‘And you wanna provide me with what I desire.’ Jim’s crooked smile was as tenacious as his personality. Therefore it suited him, inasmuch as Spock was capable of passing such judgments. Illogical as it was to smile in such a moment, it was logical for Jim. ‘Which means you’ve been playing hard to get this whole time. Working me up—getting me right where you want me.’

‘Your ability to regroup is well-established,’ Spock said. ‘Yet that is not the skill in question or in practice.’

‘You spoke inside my head, Spock. That’s not something I get every day. I guess you’d say it’s “not unremarkable”.’ The air Jim had been storing in his lungs left him in a single exhalation. He shook his head, then his shoulders, wiggling onto his knees. ‘This is all so we can communicate when we’re in trouble?’

‘It will also ensure that my pain will be your pain,’ Spock replied. ‘My needs will be felt as your needs. Matters of biology—matters of physicality—and matters of thought. You are capable of understanding this, given time, but do not suggest you understand it now. You will feel that which is not yours.’

‘And you…’ Jim could not remain still. He gestured between their chests. ‘You’ll feel the same.’

‘I will.’

Jim paused for thought—a new and unexpected occurrence. ‘But you’re the one with the big, bad Vulcan brain, between the two of us,’ he said finally. ‘You’re the one who’s got all the telepathy here. And that means you’re gonna feel the same, only like…a hundred times more.’

‘Approximately sixty-three point five-one times more,’ Spock replied. ‘Approximately. That number is based upon a comparison between the average Vulcan and the average human abilities, but as an average, it provides a generalized assessment.’

Jim whistled. He did that often to represent a variety of emotional responses while simultaneously masking visible expression through the pursing of his lips and his concentration on emitting the sound. It also drew attention to his mouth, which was another preferred method of deflection. ‘Sixty-three point five one times more, approximately,’ Jim said. ‘That’s a lot of times more.’

‘A fact already established.’

‘I mean, it’s a lot for _you_ to…’ The next pause lingered. ‘No wonder you were playing hard to get, Spock.’

‘My alliance and my bonding—as well as my person—are not an object to be possessed.’

‘No. Yeah—of course they’re not,’ Jim said. ‘But it makes sense just the same.’

‘You believe you have come to understand my motives, as much as you are able.’

‘I’m a big, messy variable. I’m _all_ human. And now you’re gonna be feeling what I feel.’ Jim chuckled—mirthless, honest. ‘I can tell you one thing, Spock. You’re gonna want to go after Prince George Samuel Kirk a hell of a lot sooner than you do right now.’

Spock blinked. ‘If I do not allow my own emotions to rule me, it is even less likely that I should allow your emotions to succeed where mine have not.’

Jim paused again, taking his time between his sentences the way he had been forced to take his time in _kal-toh_ , the way he had refused to take his time in chess. ‘Am I gonna feel those emotions of yours, Spock?’

‘You will be able to get some sense of them,’ Spock replied.

‘Based on average abilities.’ Jim’s grin flashed, fast and bright, across his face. It recalled to Spock’s mind dry, heat lightning, the storms he had watched across the black night sky out his window when he was a young boy. ‘Only I’m not average.’

‘You are eager to feel that which you cannot possibly predict.’

‘Yeah,’ Jim said. ‘Of course I am. It’s gonna be _fun_ , Spock. Something no man has done before.’

‘Is fun your primary goal?’ Spock asked. ‘This would clarify a great many aspects of your behavior.’

Jim’s grin turned crooked. Through observation, Spock determined that the left side of his mouth was swollen, a detail that had taken some time to come to light. It was not Spock’s attention that was lacking but rather the time required for Jim’s tissues to become inflamed enough that the swelling would be noticeable. Jim’s mouth held a slight asymmetry even in a neutral state; it was not difficult to overlook these slight variations. Spock was nonetheless interested in noting the differences.

‘And you’d just  _love_ to clarify me, wouldn’t you, Spock?’ Jim said.

His tongue darted out between his lips, resting briefly at the corner of his mouth.

‘Is your interest in me related to your desire to go where no man has gone before?’ Spock inquired.

Jim’s eyes widened. His mouth worked, lips stretching in a silent o-shape, before he shut them with a click of his teeth.

The silence could not last. Spock was aware of that, more so than Jim himself. He waited, allowing Jim to absorb and entertain the sudden shift in their dynamic.

In addition to the weight of their telepathic link, he now had a new element of Spock’s behavior with which to contend. This was not a kindness Spock had afforded him, but it was in neither of their best interests to be nice. Spock had learned that, though the word had a technical definition, its practical application was meaningless. In order to ensure that Spock acted to both their benefit, it was important to test their boundaries.

Only by understanding their limitations could they grow beyond them.

‘Was that a joke?’ Jim asked finally.

‘Vulcans do not joke,’ Spock said.

‘But humans do,’ Jim replied. He lifted his hand, holding his index finger and thumb three point seven inches apart. ‘You got a little human in you, Spock. Don’t forget about that.’

‘That is not an accurate measurement.’

‘No,’ Jim’s gaze passed to his hand, ‘I’m pretty sure it is. I looked it up. On your PADD. That’s half a Vulcan.’

He squished his fingers together, tapping the callused pads one against the other. Once again, he had adapted to the circumstances despite initial confusion and uncertainty, which returned Spock to the defensive. Their conversation was not unlike a return to the sparring arena or one of the many games of chess they had played. Jim had been victorious in the latter but as of yet he had not overcome Spock in the former.

They were nearly evenly matched.

‘It is late,’ Spock said.

‘Accurate,’ Jim replied.

‘Tonight I intend to make full use of the bed that is mine,’ Spock continued.

Jim glanced to the item of furniture in question. ‘Your bed.’

‘I did not make full use of it last night—yet, as it belongs to me, my decision in this matter is final.’

‘You ever hear of a king-sized bed, Spock?’ Jim stretched and rose on legs that were sore but refused to surrender to their aches and pains. ‘They don’t make ‘em prince-sized, but on Earth, most people dream pretty big, and that starts in the bedroom. King-sized bed for a king-sized ego. Your bed’s not small exactly, but it’s not exactly royal, either.’

‘It satisfies,’ Spock said. ‘It serves its purpose.’

‘Well, it’s gonna get cramped tonight, that’s all I’m saying.’ Jim shrugged out of his shirt and sat on the left side of the bed, pulling off his boots. He left them in good order, which belied his careless affectations. Should he need to wake quickly, he would be able to slip them on almost immediately; should he be required to flee, he would not have to do so barefoot. ‘Also, just so you know: I sweat.’

Jim settled back, also on the left side of the bed, crossing one leg over the other and folding his arms behind his head, between it and the pillows he had brought in from Spock’s more public quarters. He stared up at Spock, a sign of defiance and daring. He seemed to believe that Spock would find some reason to excuse himself, not realizing that Vulcans—like their sehlats—were capable of great territoriality.

Spock removed his boots in the same fashion and lay back, sweeping the excess pillows aside. ‘I am aware of that,’ he replied.

*


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pillow talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loarts/loarts-art on tumblr, amazing artist and wonderful human, drew some delicious mirrorverse Prince!Spock:

It had taken two and a half weeks, but Jim and Spock were finally sleeping together.

Literally sleeping. No euphemisms implied, no double-entendres, no wink-wink action happening. Not on Spock’s watch. Lying there with Spock was like taking a statue to bed: rigid, tall, as straight and inflexible as he was when he was standing. In fact, Spock lying down was exactly like Spock standing up, the horizontal version of the vertical act. The x axis instead of the y.

Leave it to Jim to figure out the best possible metaphor for them after the darkness had settled and Spock’s breathing had evened out—as rhythmic as it was when he was meditating, so that Jim couldn’t be completely sure what the difference was here.

Spock was the axis; Jim was all the points that hadn’t been fully plotted.

He had to hope he didn’t forget that stunning insight by the time he woke up.

As for sleeping—it’d been easier the night before when Jim had the bed to himself, since bumping into Spock whenever he shifted positions was like bumping into a solid wall. Every time Jim braced himself for a comment, a hand around his wrist, even one around his throat—but it never came. The lack of retribution when retribution was more than reasonably expected was worse than any retribution itself.

But one thing Jim couldn’t deny was that he’d done plenty that day, fighting with Vulcans and bonding with one Vulcan in particular. Sleep was a rare commodity. Jim had learned early not to take it for granted.

After two and a half weeks, they were able to sleep together. Literally sleep. That was a hell of a lot more intimate than getting into somebody’s underwear, and Jim knew it.

The problem he didn’t anticipate was dreaming. Nightmares, more accurately; Jim was never without them. That terrible summer he’d spent with Sam on Tarsus IV, kidnapped by their dad’s enemies and sent to fight for their lives in the hunts there; the first, real assassination attempt made on Sam’s life; the first on Jim’s; the night George Kirk died.

There was plenty of material. It didn’t have to make sense; dreams rarely did. All it had to be was the hint of a memory, a feeling, a scent from a place and time that Jim couldn’t think about while facing another day, and he was there.

Vulcans weren’t the only ones who knew their fair share about repression.

Jim’s brain was a fever. He didn’t know how Spock had managed to synthesize the information he’d scraped out from joining minds. Even Jim had to compartmentalize, slotting separate subjects into their respective positions so he could think straight. When his conscious mind took a step back for the night, all bets were off.

Spock thought Jim didn’t have any control.

He had no idea.

Of all the people who could appreciate the effort it took to control unwanted rushes of pure emotion, Jim kind of figured Spock would be at the top of the list. They were sharing a bed, but they hadn’t exactly made any stunning breakthroughs.

Spock didn’t even have the decency to snore.

Jim’s thoughts continued in a delirious frenzy, things he’d lived through melting into things he was afraid of, things that could have been happening to Sam at the hands of the Romulans. George Kirk’s ship had been attacked off-world; a large-scale, antiseptic assault that had happened in space. By contrast, everything Jim’s subconscious managed to conjure up for Sam was small and personal, daily beatings and starvation. Maybe one day the guards went too far and ended it all.

Spock had told him it wouldn’t happen, but reason had no place within dreams.

Jim usually couldn’t get it under control himself. But gradually, he became aware of a cool, blue light in the back of his mind. It felt like a refuge from the heat of a fever and from the heat of Vulcan, which went down at night with the sun. Someone had plucked at a single thread in the greater weave of his mind; Jim followed the line, all the way up to the surface of his thoughts.

He woke up halfway out of bed, facedown on the mattress, his arm dragging dead on the floor. He must have slept on it funny, pinched a nerve somewhere. Jim tossed in his sleep sometimes, possibly most of the time. It wasn’t constant like the sweating; he didn’t consider it something he needed to warn Spock about beforehand. And yet here he was, almost on the floor and threatening to drag all the covers down there with him.

Not exactly good manners for a guest.

Jim tried to sit up and roll over. Spock’s hand was on the back of his neck.

‘Uh,’ Jim said.

If this was some kind of nighttime assault, Spock had sure been biding his time.

‘Your sleep was disordered,’ Spock replied.

He took his hand off of Jim’s skin and a headache swelled in the base of Jim’s skull, taking Spock’s place.

Jim made a noise, not a happy one. It sounded like something between the whimper of a hungry kitten and the whine of a lost puppy. Jim’s brain could be a fever but it wasn’t the kind of roiling, all-consuming fever that he’d sensed lurking in the back of Spock’s eyes, a fever that consumed others instead of just one. Jim cleared his throat, but the damage was already done. He’d pleaded with Spock and he hadn’t even done so with words, so it wasn’t like he could take them back.

‘I’m not awake,’ Jim said.

Spock’s hand, despite Jim’s obvious request, hadn’t come back. The headache was still there, which figured. Jim didn’t even have a good night’s sleep to fight off the after-effects of testing his mind’s limitations or whatever it was that Spock called it—when really it could’ve been defined as an all-out mental assault.

‘That,’ Spock replied, ‘is clearly a false statement.’

‘I talk in my sleep.’

‘Indeed, though this is not a case of that phenomenon.’

‘I talk— I talked in my sleep _last night_?’ Jim asked. His first instinct was to turn around but for the time being his arm was numb and the shadows in the corner of Spock’s bed were friendlier than the idea of Spock’s face. Even if those shadows did belong to Spock at the end of the day.

‘As I said, your sleep was disordered.’

‘So I interrupted your beauty rest, huh?’ Jim snorted. ‘What with all that Vulcan strength and Vulcan stamina and Vulcan superiority, I wouldn’t think a little thing like that’d get to you.’

‘I did not intend for my sleep to be interrupted by the difficulties you were having with yours,’ Spock said. ‘Emotional transference is a side-effect of any meld. Continued emotional transference is a side-effect of the particular meld in which we engaged.’

‘Don’t think of it like the sleep you’re losing,’ Jim suggested. ‘Think of it like the front-row seat you’re getting to one hell of a show. Emphasis on the _hell_ part.’

‘There is no need to present a defense against that which has already occurred. I did not alter your dreams. I simply lessened their reach and effect.’

‘I’d be pretty ungrateful if I didn’t say thanks.’ Jim buried his face against the nearest pillow and breathed his smells off the fabric. His sweat; his wrinkles. He was here, which was part of the problem, but it was also part of the solution. ‘So why’d you stop?’

Just like that—after the barest of pauses—Spock’s fingers rested against the nape of Jim’s neck again, cool and soothing. Jim had seen those hands take out enemies; he’d felt those hands laying down hurt on him like he hadn’t imagined possible from a single assailant. They’d gripped Jim’s wrist like locked manacles and now they lay on the skin at the back of Jim’s neck, right at the hairline at the base of Jim’s skull, and his touch was an oasis.

Jim let his eyes fall shut and sighed. He remembered, at the last second, to arch his back as he resettled, relaxing, possibly melting, on the mattress. ‘Mmgh,’ he said.

It felt good.

That was why he had to milk it.

Spock wouldn’t take it seriously; Jim wouldn’t have to either. In the meantime, cool, calm relief pulsed through the fire in his blood and quenched a deep thirst Jim hadn’t known how to quench. Which sounded ridiculously dramatic, but after a bad night, everybody was prone to dramatics. In this case, at least, Jim wasn’t an exception.

‘Feels good,’ Jim added. ‘You oughta touch me more often, Spock. In other places too, maybe.’

There had never been a moment, so it wasn’t like there’d been one to ruin.

Spock’s touch graduated from just his fingers to his whole hand as he settled his palm against the nape of Jim’s neck. His skin was dry and cool. Jim had never really appreciated what it meant for a whole race of people not to sweat—he’d been equal parts unsettled and disturbed—but the physical fact of it could be overwhelming, especially in the middle of the night, on Jim’s restless body. The heat had dissipated with the sunset, but cold sweat was a thing too. Jim’s body was fond of stirring up all sorts of new and interesting secretions for him to deal with.

He groaned again, rubbing his nose against the soft surface of his borrowed pillow.

‘If you are attempting to coerce me into further action with sexual innuendo, I will assume that the late hour has caused you to forget what you already know,’ Spock said.

‘Right.’ Jim’s lashes fluttered as his eyes opened and shut. ‘You’re an ice man. Not interested.’

‘Those two statements are not mutually exclusive,’ Spock said.

‘Hang on,’ Jim said.

That sounded like an intimation. He couldn’t be sure. Spock wasn’t wrong—Jim was still half-asleep, not operating at full capacity—but he was going to work it out. He would get there.

Waves of focus passed over Jim’s skin and into his mind like a fresh breeze blowing inland off the San Francisco bay. If Jim missed anything from Earth, it was a proximity to the ocean. Nothing could trump the quality of the air there and the rhythm of the surf as the waves beat the shore, in and out, in and out.

Unconsciously, Jim’s breathing started to mimic that pattern in his imagination. The beach wasn’t safe; too much open space, not enough secure entry and exit points to lock down. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been there, if he had ever been able to lie back on the sand and soak in the sun. But in his mind there was still a certain kind of peace associated with the ocean, with that shade of blue and a sunny day that happened rarely in reality.

‘Are you doing that?’ Jim’s voice was slurred, coming from far away. ‘Is that you putting stuff in my head?’

‘I am inducing a state of calm,’ Spock replied. ‘The effect that it takes is unique to your consciousness.’

‘You’re trying to distract me,’ Jim said.

Spock didn’t respond, maybe because he felt like the statement was self-evident. His fingers brushed over Jim’s hairline and against his scalp. Jim folded his arms under his chest, shifting to push them under the pillow next. It was a fine line, squirming just enough to get Spock’s attention without dislodging his hand.

If he wiggled too much, like the first time, Spock would stop touching him. If he didn’t wiggle enough, he would fall asleep, or Spock would lose interest, or Spock’s eyes wouldn’t be drawn to the parts of Jim’s body that might work on _his_ mind, or at least on other organs. Jim grinned at the thought, primarily at how stupid it was, how it came and left unbidden—and how good _stupid_ currently felt. Relaxing with another person— _because_ of another person—shouldn’t have been possible, but here they were.

Here Jim was.

Here Spock was, with him and not against him. Resting against him, yeah, but not working against him. Working with him, on him, instead.

Jim groaned. His manifestation of peace was a San Francisco that didn’t currently exist currently. If it ever had existed, then it was years before Jim had been born. He’d seen pictures. It wasn’t real now, so it wasn’t an oasis, not exactly; it was more of a mirage.

And if Jim was there, and Spock was encouraging it, then that meant Spock was probably there with him.

‘I asked a question,’ Jim continued. How long had it been since the last time he spoke? Time didn’t exist when Spock’s hands were on his skin. ‘And you didn’t answer it; you distracted me instead. “Two statements that aren’t mutually exclusive”—that means one can exist without the other. You’re an iceman _or_ you’re not interested. Not both simultaneously—that was the implication.’

‘And you believe that I am an “iceman”, then, as it would be preferable to being “not interested”?’

‘Uh-uh. You’re not the iceman because I’m the one who’s melting.’ Jim wiggled to illustrate the fact. Spock’s fingertips rose only to resettle; they pushed above Jim’s hairline. It was so good—peace and calm and safety and also physical contact. Maybe that was the mirage; maybe it was the oasis. It was really happening, even if half of it was happening inside Jim’s head. He groaned again. It was better than a whimper, vulnerable in a different, giving way. ‘But are you the iceman, Spock?’

‘Were I not interested in what you have to offer, you would not be here,’ Spock said.

Jim wiggled. He arched his back again but the strain was too much on his fully relaxed position, his muscles loose and sleepy and uncooperative. When he flattened himself to the mattress he was half hard—unlike the mattress, which was hard all the way, never having heard the definition of soft—but Jim couldn’t pinpoint the reason why.

Maybe because there was more than one reason.

Comfort was one. Apparently, he liked that, rare as it was to experience it. And Spock’s deep voice was hot. Sexy, even. And his fingers were cool in contrast, which sent shivers down Jim’s spine, but mostly it was the safety. The illicit, fleeting sensation of safety.

‘What I have to offer.’ Jim swallowed, forcing himself to concentrate beyond the hum of cozy pleasure flooding his limbs through his central nervous system, which Spock had tapped directly into. ‘Treaties, aid when called upon, political advancement, some fun in the sand sparring now and then, or are you talking about…’

Jim’s breath hitched. Spock rolled his fingertips in circles over the vertebrae in Jim’s neck.

‘I am interested,’ Spock replied simply.

As complicated as he was, there was one thing Jim knew for sure. He could be _really_ annoying.

‘Whatever,’ Jim muttered into the pillow, fabric damp from his lips. ‘Fine; be that way.’

It wasn’t like he had anyone he could complain to. There was probably something in the treaty between Vulcan and Earth about cruel and unusual treatment of their allies on foreign soil, but Jim doubted he could prove to anyone else that Spock was being cruel and unusual with him. If anything, Jim was the unusual one.

He still couldn’t let this thing with Spock go. Even a slower mind would have been able to deduce that sexual advances weren’t the way to get under Spock’s skin, but Jim persisted. There were other avenues to take if he wanted Spock to think he wasn’t a threat and there were other things he could do to distract him. Hell, beating him at chess worked well enough for a while. Spock liked chess more than anyone should like chess.

But for Jim to keep returning to this time and time again only to get shot down, well… There had to be something wrong with him.

Not cruel, but unusual. Definitely.

Spock sighed. Jim wasn’t entirely convinced that Vulcans  _did_ sigh, but he exhaled with extra purpose. His shoulders even relaxed. Jim could tell from the way his weight shifted on the bed.

‘You are unlike anyone I have ever encountered,’ Spock said.

So long as he didn’t take his hand away he could say whatever he wanted.

‘Quit reading my mind,’ Jim replied.

‘I could not,’ Spock said, ‘even if that was what I desired. If your thoughts happened to reflect my commentary, this was not due to intentional intrusion on my part.’

‘Right.’ Jim shifted in increments to be more on one side than on his stomach and untucked his right arm to reach, subtly, across the distance between them on the bed. He didn’t touch Spock, just moved his fingers in the air around him, feeling out the shape Spock made like he was tracing a hologram silhouette. ‘Vulcans don’t believe in coincidences.’

‘There is no such thing,’ Spock confirmed.

If he shifted some of the details of their current predicament around, Jim could almost cast this conversation in a friendly light. They were working their way up to banter, albeit the kind of banter shared with someone who was sucking the bad dreams out of Jim’s head at the same time.

And the dream-sucking added a certain surreal quality it was impossible to dismiss.

But Jim wasn’t going to ask Spock to stop. In fact, he was seconds away from devoting his considerable brainpower toward figuring out how to get Spock to  _keep_ touching him like that forever. Jim’s own personal mind filter. Bad thoughts getting the boot before they wormed their way in—Jim could get used to that.

It was probably treason to think about another planet’s prince like that, but Jim was never one for playing it safe. He grinned, lips stretching against Spock’s pillow.

‘Do I amuse you?’ Spock asked.

‘Something like that.’

‘Clarify.’

‘Why not intrude and find out yourself? You could. We both know you could. Besides, I’m putty in your hands right now—and you know that, too.’

Spock’s fingers stilled. The good feelings didn’t stop, although they shifted directions. Jim’s stomach rumbled.

‘A metaphor,’ Spock said finally.

‘Yeah,’ Jim replied. ‘It means you’ve got me right where you want me.’

‘Given your request when you first arrived in my chambers, you are now currently where you yourself professed a desire to be. Where I wanted you had little to do with it.’

As always, Spock refused to budge. He might have relaxed incrementally, but Jim was going to have to measure his progress not even in centimeters but with a microscopic lens, something to magnify his achievements for the naked eye, which couldn’t even see them without a little help.

It wasn’t all bad. This, for example, was almost all good, which might’ve been why Jim kept throwing himself against it, looking for it to crack. There had to be a fault line in it somewhere: a hidden door, a catch. As soon as something seemed better than it should be, chances were it wasn’t what it seemed at all.

Only Vulcans didn’t lie. They didn’t bother with it.

‘What about you?’ Jim asked. ‘I’m starting to get an idea of what you don’t want, obviously, you’ve made that _way_ too clear, but what about what you do want?’

Spock didn’t reply.

He was big on that.

Jim huffed; Spock’s fingers started moving again, hypnotic circles that made Jim feel like rolling over and asked for a belly rub, maybe a scratch under the chin while his left leg thumped the mattress in approval. Rule number one of diplomacy was never show the wolves your bare throat, but this wasn’t diplomacy.

It was something else. Something more vulnerable.

‘I guess I could just wait for the bond to deepen,’ Jim continued lazily, but thoughtfully. His ideas were sharper amidst the fog of comfort, almost like it was protecting him from distraction. It wasn’t a numbing agent but a clarifying one. ‘Wait for this exchange to go both ways and then probe you.’ Jim snorted. ‘I didn’t even mean for that to sound as dirty as it did, wow. That one was all natural. It’s a special talent. Still…’

Spock’s silence was practically an old friend at this point.

‘It’d just feel like cheating,’ Jim said. ‘And I don’t cheat. Does that surprise you?’

‘Not now that I have been given opportunity to observe you,’ Spock replied.

‘So now all the surprises have gone out of the relationship. Next thing you know, I won’t be able to make you smile anymore.’ Jim tried to picture it, but with the rest of the distractions, the ridiculous image never cohered into anything more than an idle blur. ‘Now there’s an idea. You, smiling. Have you ever done that?’

No; the answer had to be no.

There was no reply.

‘Why let me keep talking, when you could just read me like a book and get it over with?’ Jim added. ‘No—hey, don’t answer that. Not that I think you would anyway, but I’ve gotta do something to maintain spontaneity around here.’

‘And conversation.’

‘You keep making these jokes, Spock, and I’m gonna start getting the idea you might actually be funny.’

‘One of us must maintain those standards as well,’ Spock said.

When Jim laughed, he wasn’t expecting it. It wasn’t a sly chuckle or a polite, flattering thing, something he had to offer to smooth over a tense situation or convince somebody boring that they were anything but. It was real. He wanted to laugh and he did, like any other reflex.

‘Oh my God,’ Jim said. ‘You’re— Spock, you’ve got a _mouth_.’

Spock looked at him like he was an idiot, or just plain simple. Since Jim had gone out of his way to prove the exact opposite up until now, he could understand why Spock might need a second.

‘Yes.’ He stretched his lips, as close to playing along as Jim had ever caught him at.

‘It’s an expression.’ Jim said. ‘You’re pretty sheltered, Spock. I like it.’

That earned him another look, Spock’s dark eyes sliding to one side, taking in the sight of Jim lying on his belly like a tired, old sehlat. He couldn’t remember whether they sweat or not. Given their thick fur coats, he kind of hoped they didn’t. For their sakes.

Jim grinned, wrinkling his nose. Spock’s fingers moved again, tracing lightly over the muscular lines of Jim’s neck. Not for the first time, it was almost like they had a real rapport between them; Jim was enjoying himself. Spock might’ve been too.

He didn’t know if Vulcans had fun in bed, but Jim appealed to the human half of Spock. He’d practically said as much.

‘The Vulcan language is not cluttered with needless euphemisms,’ Spock replied. ‘Therefore, your expressions are not essential to my cultural knowledge.’

‘If you say so.’ Jim yawned, smothering himself against his pillow. It wasn’t that he was falling asleep. His brain wanted more oxygen; it hadn’t yet worked out that it was in dire straits. It was going to have to make do with less in order to adapt. Jim had learned how. Now it was his brain’s turn. ‘Couldn’t hurt, though.’

‘Is that why you have made it your business to direct my cultural education?’ Spock asked. ‘You have reason to believe it is necessary to my well-being?’

‘Sucks, doesn’t it?’ Jim replied. ‘Hearing someone tell you you’re not living up to your full potential. Almost makes you want to ask what business it is of theirs, since they barely know you and all.’

His breathing snared where Spock’s hand slid low over the nape of his neck, rubbing tight little knots out of the crook of his shoulder. Jim could hear them creaking before they gave way into relaxation. That probably wasn’t healthy for someone who hadn’t cracked his twenties yet.

There was no-one he could ask to look at it, though. No-one but Spock, and he was more hands-on in his examinations than anything else.

Jim wouldn’t have expected it.

‘You are frustrated by my appraisal of your current state of being,’ Spock observed.

‘Or I’m frustrated by your refusal to acknowledge that you can get frustrated, too.’ Jim’s first instinct was to shrug, but if he did that, he risked reminding Spock that his hand was traveling, and that wouldn’t do. ‘And considering we’ve played chess together, I _know_ you get frustrated, Spock. Whether it’s by me winning at all or by the fact that, according to your logic, I shouldn’t be winning _ever_.’

‘There will come a time,’ Spock said, ‘when matters of admission between us will no longer be extant.’

This time, when Spock removed his hand, the only loss Jim felt was the physical one. It had a different shape and weight than the internal shift; Jim’s headache didn’t return to fill the emptiness Spock left inside his skull, but there were other aches, intangible ones, that came with being alone.

They were like bruises. If you had enough of those, and if they never had the chance to fade, then you got used to the way they felt. You didn’t notice the pain as anything out of the ordinary because the pain was constant. Normal. It was only when you stopped hurting—when you realized there was an option other than being alone, for example—that it could be realized fully for what it was.

A wound.

It was a little like how nobody would know what the stars looked like if there weren’t all that black sky around them for contrast.

All good things came in pairs.

All bad ones, too.

Apparently, being lonely came with its share of philosophizing. Jim was relaxed enough that he could channel his comfort into some more sleep, which he needed, or he could stay up thinking about all the new stuff in his chest and head, which was pointless.

He chose what was behind door number one.

And when he fell asleep, he didn’t dream.

*


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hand jobs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY for how late in the day this update is! A panic attack got in the way, but here it is now!

In the following days, they honed their skills, sparring as partners in the late afternoon, while dusk settled over the desert mountains. When the temperature cooled, Jim was at his best; therefore, after a week had passed, each day, Spock changed the appointed time to a single hour earlier.

There was a great deal of increased sweating, but that was to be anticipated, and ultimately, Jim did not falter.

Not surprisingly, there were agents whose loyalties lay elsewhere than in Spock’s domain, and the news that Spock had bonded with a human prince spread. His own agents, whose loyalties were not in question, intercepted coded messages passed to Spock’s enemies on Vulcan and beyond regarding his peculiar behavior.

‘My ears are burning,’ Jim said while reading—and dripping—over Spock’s shoulder. He smelled of himself, a self scoured by the sun and the sand, a self that endured despite all that scoured it. They had returned from an afternoon session in the arena and Jim had not yet entered the sonic shower. He was, however, naked to the waist.

‘Consider a hat,’ Spock replied.

Jim’s huff gusted hot breath along the back of Spock’s neck.

Then, he was gone.

Spock refocused. There was intelligence that suggested T’Pring was in communication with the Romulans, though Spock knew her as well as she knew him. It would not be logical—or even sensible—to trust them. She would use them for what she needed, if there was anything she needed at all.

Jim re-emerged from the sonic shower wearing a towel and his bruises. He did not need to be in the room for Spock to sense that. He switched the screens on his PADD.

‘Tomorrow,’ Spock said, ‘we shall depart on a small transport ship. It will, in all likelihood, be intercepted by Alliance forces. We will be taken prisoner not as royalty but as any other enemy of the Alliance, whereupon we will be consigned as live entertainment in games fought to the death.’

‘Gosh, Spock.’ Jim paused in place, pulling his towel from where it was wrapped around his waist to wipe his face with it instead. Spock recognized this as a distraction tactic, one hastily employed in order to conceal an expression before Jim could ward it off entirely. ‘And here I was complaining that you never take me anywhere nice.’

His sense of humor took its usual form, representing a desire to conceal that which had affected him personally.

Spock could not characterize Jim as someone who would fear interception or imprisonment by the Alliance. His arrival and subsequent time spent on Vulcan had always been shaped by his desire to leave and search for his brother, actions that would place him directly in the Alliance’s jurisdiction. However, it was possible that the suddenness of the very departure he had sought still required a moment’s contemplation.

They had spent enough time together to establish a routine. Spock could understand how Jim might have become accustomed to the parameters of that routine.

Nonetheless, if he had proven himself anything, it was overwhelmingly adaptable in the face of change. If Spock could wait long enough without replying to his joke in order to validate it, then he knew that Jim would relent.

Jim did not force Spock to wait for long.

‘Don’t tell me.’ Jim tossed his towel aside. He was not naked, having clad himself in shorts before entering Spock’s chambers, perhaps because he knew Spock would look, or perhaps because he had concluded Spock would not look. ‘You’ve used up your daily allotment of words and now I’ve gotta wait until tomorrow to hear anything more outta you.’

Spock raised an eyebrow in his direction. He reflected that he might have been too ambitious in his belief that Jim would at any point and with any amount of guidance overcome his natural inclination toward using humor to deflect.

‘As you are an instrumental part of the operation, it is important that you begin to prepare yourself mentally,’ Spock informed him.

‘Go over the part where we’re gonna be taken prisoner again?’ Jim went to Spock’s chest of drawers, pawing through the clothing there to find something loose he could use to cover himself. ‘’Cause that’s where you lost me.’

‘Given the nature of our transportation, in addition to the chosen route, the likelihood of our capture has been calculated to the nearest decimal place,’ Spock said. ‘It would be an intentional incarceration in order to infiltrate. You should recognize this tactic as the one you yourself employed in order to gain access to my compound, and later an audience with myself.’

Jim’s expression sharpened, lighting on Spock’s face with visible interest.

‘You’re talking about pulling a _me_ , Spock?’ He lifted and dropped his eyebrows, wiggling them in Spock’s direction as if communicating in some unfathomable code. It was unnecessary. Spock could sense, among other things, the excitement of his pleasure, laced with the web of nervousness. ‘Why didn’t you just say so?’

‘I did,’ Spock said.

Jim lifted one of Spock’s simpler tunics from the drawer and inspected it—face once again hidden, this time behind another fabric. Spock could see the shadow of his profile behind the pale gray canvas. When he again saw Jim’s face, it was stretched into a grimace, implying that the shirt would be acceptable functionally, if not fashionably. ‘Just for the record, I came up with the strategy we’re gonna use on the Alliance. To infiltrate the Alliance.’

‘A strategy that is not uncommon in Earth’s history, as well as the literature of numerous other empires,’ Spock reminded him. ‘It is not unique to your repertoire.’

‘Yeah, but I brought it to the table.’ Jim struggled with the neck and arms and drapery of the garment he had chosen, at last reappearing through the collar, hair tousled, eyes noticeably brighter than ever. ‘This is _my_ plan. What kind of live entertainment games are we talking about?’

‘A particular form of subjugation that combines the physical violence preferred by Klingon sentimentalities and clever manipulation commonly associated with the Romulans. Blood sport.’

‘Gladiators,’ Jim said. ‘Ancient Rome. It’s a thing. You know what I’m saying; I know you do.’

‘There is another name for it in Romulan, and another in Klingon,’ Spock replied. ‘Yet you understand the framework. The context would indeed be what you are envisioning.’

‘Which is what you’ve been planning all along.’ Jim hadn’t tugged down the wrinkled hem of his shirt yet; it was only halfway over his stomach, rolled just above the navel. ‘And that’s why you—with the bond, with the fighting, with the endless sparring sessions—this has been your end game all along.’

‘I would not have engaged in idle recreation,’ Spock said. ‘Logically, there has been a purpose to our practice.’

‘Idle recreation’s awesome, first of all,’ Jim replied. ‘Don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it. But that’s not even the point. You knew all along there was a purpose, a specific plan of action, and I didn’t know. You didn’t share that. You chose not to or it never even crossed your mind. Either way, we’ve got the link down, but you keep things from me, Spock.’

‘You yourself underscored the importance of maintaining mystery,’ Spock reminded him.

‘Sure.’ Jim pulled the hem of the shirt down in one swift motion, turning his back to Spock in the next breath. Excitement and anticipation had turned, as they so often did, to chaos. Jim was unable to properly manage the intensity of his numerous emotional responses and they had soured, as they so often did. They had darkened. His moods were as changeable as Spock had come to understand the weather of Earth’s San Francisco could be. ‘Sure.’

He withdrew into Spock’s inner chamber without further comment. A moment later, Spock learned that he had begun to regulate his breathing. He was meditating, or attempting to.

Jim had not once chosen this course voluntarily at any point during their acquaintance—nor did he perform the act intuitively, as was clear from his previous attempts. Yet now, in the height of emotionalism, Jim had chosen to do that which was against his nature.

Five minutes passed. Jim had not calmed. His agitation was as noticeable and as discordant as it had been at the start.

Spock left him to this attempt and began to make further arrangements. There was a great deal of business to be concluded, many parts of a whole to be set in motion, before they could depart. A body double would have to sit in Spock’s place as a decoy, but the stage had been set for Prince Spock of Vulcan to withdraw and indulge in the distraction of certain company.

When Spock returned to have his evening meal in private, Jim was still chasing after meditation as though the chase itself was not the antithesis of that practice.

Just as meditation was not in Jim’s nature, it was not in Spock’s to interrupt another’s attempts at reaching inner peace, so he did not remark on the futility of Jim’s struggle. Rather, he allowed his silence to speak for itself. Since Jim had not transcended to a state of unimpeachable calm, it seemed unlikely that Spock’s presence would go unnoticed.

When Spock turned to observe Jim, he saw a crease in his brow, indicating an increase in stress.

He was frowning even in the grips of a relaxation exercise.

Spock would not be the first to speak. Instead, he partook of his evening meal, enjoying a rare moment of silence that was punctuated neither by statements of dismay over the lack of animal proteins nor any outbursts over the citric acid content of the dishes offered.

While eating, Spock reviewed the reports from various ministers, taking note of anything that would have to be monitored in his absence.

The body double would not be able to replicate Spock’s thought processes exactly, but he would be possessed of a reasonable intellect. As long as Spock singled out potential difficulties in advance, he could trust someone capable to keep it from deteriorating by following a set of express orders set out for a broad sampling of potential scenarios.

He was lost in thought when Jim’s nostrils flared, his sudden intake of breath providing a distraction from the glow of the PADD. Spock looked up in time to see Jim stretching, removing himself from his position on the mat. Whether he was informed of their objective or not, Jim’s physical progress was undeniable. He was limber and healthy, no longer as stiff and short of breath as he had appeared upon first arrival.

It was Spock’s opinion that he would fare well in combat trials to come.

‘You were gonna eat dessert  _without_  me?’ Jim moved quickly to the table, perching on its edge without taking a more traditional seat in a nearby chair. ‘That’s my favorite part of any meal, Spock.’

‘You do not need to continue to prove your resilience against the  _sash-savas_ ,’ Spock informed him.

His words were unnecessary as Jim reached for the fruit without hesitation. He rolled it between his fingers in an effort to pretend as though he was not stalling or dreading the moment when he would have to bite down.

‘It’s them or me, Spock,’ Jim said.

He then closed his teeth over the fruit, pale yellow juices flowing over the back of his hand and between the webbing that spanned the distance between his index finger and thumb. If he did not wipe it away, the acids would soon begin to irritate his skin.

Spock himself had already acknowledged the presence of a routine. They had precedent for certain eventualities—there was even precedent for this one in particular.

The last time Jim had stained his hands with the juices of the _sash-savas_ , Spock had assisted him in the decontamination process. He had done so with his lips and tongue. Unorthodox as it had been, it was still a point of shared memory.

Jim glanced at Spock over his knuckles. His eyes intimated the spark of challenge; he may have intended to suggest that Spock should ‘read’ his mind, as though the process involved anything as structured, as orderly, or as linear as a text. If a sentence could possess two or three hidden meanings, its multiplicity of interpretation paled in comparison to the complex quadruple helix of a single, momentary emotion.

Whatever it was that Jim intended—complexity that Spock would spare himself the task of deciphering, given that he would have to retain his faculties for future, more vital connections—Spock did not need to seek a definition for it vis-à-vis their bond. Jim’s eyes were far more easily translated, at least in this instance.

‘Stings,’ Jim said, almost as if the idle comment was anything but calculated and precise.

Spock held out his hand across the table. Jim hesitated for the sake of appearances only; at no point were either of them fooled, and at no point did Jim intend that either of them should be. Then, he proffered his hand in return, his lips swollen and pink from the acid, his cheeks flushed.

Spock drew Jim’s hand across the distance between them, then drew Jim’s forefinger into his mouth, between his teeth, against his tongue. He felt the finger pad brush the inside of his lip and cheek and tasted the familiar flavor coupled with the faintly metallic scent of Jim’s skin. Spock did not break eye contact; though his eyes must have been stinging, Jim did not blink. They brightened. His lips parted. Consciously or unconsciously, he licked his bottom lip, as Spock took in his index finger, then his ring finger, from distal phalanx to intermediate phalanx to proximal phalanx.

Jim swallowed. A bead of sweat on his throat slipped loose to the dip in his collarbone when the Adam’s apple beneath bobbed.

Spock returned Jim’s hand.

Unexpectedly, as Jim still possessed a unique ability for surprising Spock, Jim mirrored Spock’s actions, licking his fingers—sucking on them, perhaps with greater relish than Spock had done in the execution of a fairly straightforward task.

‘Uh-huh,’ Jim said at length. ‘Guess you really did lick me all clean.’

‘When I commit myself to a task,’ Spock replied, ‘I intend to be nothing less than thorough and efficient.’

‘Uh-uh.’ Jim paused. He seemed breathless, but Spock knew that he would not allow this breathlessness to prevent him from speaking for long. ‘Of course. And that’s how you intend to be with this, this undercover rescue mission.’

‘I have made all the requisite plans.’

‘Which’d make me the last to know,’ Jim said. Spock nodded and Jim sighed, wiping the last of the _sash-savas_ juice from the corner of his mouth with his knuckle. ‘We’re gonna be fighting together, Spock. I’ve gotta know you trust me. Not that you trust what I’m thinking. That you trust me with what you’re thinking.’

The distinction was valid. However, Jim had assigned meaning to Spock’s silence when it had simply been a practicality. He could not excite Jim with the prospect of action until they were ready to begin.

‘The lack of a perceived purpose allowed us to accustom ourselves to one another far more swiftly than if you were impatient for the achievement of a perceived purpose,’ Spock said.

‘Right.’ Jim leaned forward, drumming his fingers against the surface of the table. He was possessed of a nervous energy even now, searching for something to rail against. ‘Sure, of course. So somehow you’ve twisted it around into being  _my_  fault that you didn’t tell me anything. That makes sense. Very logical of you, Spock.’

‘Your annoyance at such an implication only further demonstrates my point,’ Spock said.

‘Well isn’t  _that_ convenient?’ Jim replied. ‘I should’ve known better for talking back. This is what I get for fumbling my way through a debate with a Vulcan. I should’ve seen the bear trap waiting to close around my ankle.’

Spock raised his eyebrow, awaiting clarification.

Jim’s mouth hung open, gaze flicking from Spock’s eyes to the shape of his jaw, using what he had observed of his facial cues in the past in order to discern the cause for his silence.

‘It’s a—a thing humans once used for hunting.’ Jim held up his hands, joined at the wrist with his fingers outstretched and interlacing like teeth. ‘Animal steps in the middle part, right there, tip the weight trigger, and  _bam_.’ He mimicked a mouth snapping shut, closing his hands to clap his palms against one another. ‘Very inhumane.’

Spock considered the image he had presented, analyzing the new information and placing it within their present context. It was nothing that would serve him during their Alliance capture, but developing his understanding of the way Jim thought would be helpful for their future trials. Even the trivial matters spoke to the patterns his brain formed, the choices he made.

Every detail had the potential to be important. Spock could not in good conscience allow himself to enter into a dangerous situation without first being confident that he had utilized all the tools at his disposal.

‘And this is how you perceive my conversation to operate,’ Spock said.

Jim cracked a smile. He flexed his hand where Spock had licked it, leaning forward to rap his knuckles on the table.

‘Not so nice to hear what people think about you, is it?’

‘I would not endeavor such a monumental and hazardous undertaking if I was not certain that you were, in some sense, dependable,’ Spock said. ‘The variables are too great for me to enter into captivity with a complete unknown.’

‘So—you  _know_  me,’ Jim said. He rubbed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, tissues irritated from the _sash-savas_. ‘That’s a good way of dodging the question. Avoiding the t-word.’

Trust, Spock concluded, after a brief pause.

There were many words in Standard that began with the same letter, but contextually, and from prior experience with Jim’s particular fascination with the concept—it haunted the corners of his thoughts and colored his instincts like a specter or ghost—Spock had no reason to believe his presumption was incorrect.

‘Because,’ Jim continued, ‘ _I’m_ not gonna endeavor such a _monumental and hazardous undertaking_ if _I’m_ not certain that you’re dependable. That I can depend on you to depend on me.’

‘You made your choice and your commitment,’ Spock reminded him.

‘I climbed the walls here.’ Jim gestured, though Spock could not fathom what relevance that gesture had to the topical action. He did not appear to be miming the climb. ‘I made it past your guards, past your pets, past trained assassins, to get to you.’

‘It was a risk.’

‘Yeah, you’re damn right it was.’ Jim pushed off the table and made for the window, sweeping aside a curtain to stare at the night sky, thereby plunging himself into natural shadows. ‘And it worked, so I must’ve done something right.’

‘Once the sun rises,’ Spock said, ‘I will have no choice other than to depend on you. But until the sun rises, the choice to depend on you is mine to make.’

It went without saying that Spock had made it.

‘Yeah,’ Jim repeated. It held a place in the conversation the way Jim held the fabric of the curtain by his side. ‘Sure. I get it.’ He did not turn around. ‘Whether you believe it or not, I’m not gonna let you down.’

‘As I said—’ Spock began.

Jim held up a hand and waved it, casual, thoughtless, or so he must have intended it to seem. It was a clear signal for silence. When he at last faced Spock again, framed by the window and the darkness and the starlight, he wore a vacuous grin. He appeared cocky; he was anything but.

Spock did not question the choice he had already made, but he did question the mercurial shifts in Jim’s demeanor, his personality, and especially his emotions. They churned at the periphery of Spock’s attention as a storm cloud in the distance.

It was a storm that had not yet broken.

It was a storm that could not be allowed to break, not at an inconvenient time. There were many such times awaiting them. To allow the threat to linger would be courting obvious, explicit danger.

‘I know what you said, Spock.’ Jim moved inward toward the bed, past Spock and the table.

The taste of _sash-savas_ was still sour on Spock’s tongue.

He caught Jim’s wrist as he passed. Spock had done that before, but action and intent were often inextricable—and if the latter changed, so did the tenor of the former. This was the same action in theory but not in practice. Jim’s shoulders tightened; he strained against Spock’s hold but only momentarily before he halted with Spock at his back.

That, too, was trust.

‘We’ve gotta trust each other,’ Jim said, quietly and hoarsely. He tugged on Spock’s grip and Spock’s hand followed the motion of his arm so that it was folded around Jim’s hips, his waist. Jim covered Spock’s knuckles with his hot, rough palm. ‘So c’mon, Spock. Trust me.’ His belly swelled with breath beneath Spock’s palm. ‘Touch me.’

He inched his fingers under the hem of his shirt, rolling the fabric up over bare skin, bringing Spock’s fingers with him. There was a faint, coarse line of hair beneath Jim’s navel and none above. Jim’s skin shivered, though his temperature remained elevated, his body warm.

Where their skin touched, the erratic tension of Jim’s consciousness brushed Spock’s mind. His thoughts were racing, impossible to trace to their origins. Spock had assured Jim of his intentions where reading him was concerned; it was not within his abilities to follow each emotion and impulse even if that was what he intended.

Jim’s lack of a steady center was intriguing. It was enough to catch Spock’s attention yet not enough to interpret.

It was not the same focused, romantic interest Spock had sensed from Jim in the past. Whatever was currently at work, it had less to do with Jim’s hormones than previous advances had demonstrated.

‘Jim,’ Spock said.

Jim’s eyelashes fluttered, his grip tight on Spock’s wrist. His palm was beginning to sweat, leaving spots of moisture on Spock’s dry skin. The flat plane of his abdomen rose and fell under Spock’s hand. Spock turned his nails against the short trail of stiff, darkening hair, trailing lower without prompting.

He could not deny the potential significance behind Jim’s sudden recklessness. If furthering contact would provide illumination as to his state of mind, then Spock could not turn aside such an opportunity. Whether Jim’s approach was appropriate or not, the basis of his premise was not entirely flawed.

They were about to enter into a situation from which not even Spock’s attention to detail and controlled intellect could shield them. Spock could not plan for every eventuality; he could be inside Jim’s head and still not be aware of what he was thinking. They would no doubt confront a contingency for which neither of them was prepared.

Spock would be remiss if he neglected an opportunity to learn more about Jim’s patterns of thought beforehand.

‘Touch me,’ Jim repeated.

‘We are touching,’ Spock informed him.

Jim made a choked sound of frustration, lifting his hips, the simple act of which caused Spock’s hand to slip lower. His fingers brushed the soft skin of Jim’s inner thighs, skirting the shape of his erection. Jim’s skin below the waist was hot, damp with sweat even though he had recently concluded a sonic shower.

‘You  _know_ that’s not what I meant, Spock.’

‘I am not in the habit of being facetious, either in your company or elsewhere,’ Spock informed him.

‘Oh my god.’ Jim tipped his head back, exposing his throat. ‘Your hand’s practically on my dick and you’re splitting hairs with me over semantics.’

‘In the near future,’ Spock said, ‘you will not be displeased with my ability to focus on multiple functions simultaneously.’

‘I’m not just a function,’ Jim replied.

His voice was somehow hotter than his skin, though a sound could not technically possess physical properties. Jim had encouraged in Spock both metaphor and improvisation. It was a result of having trained together: in order to know Jim’s thoughts, there were times when it was required of Spock to think like Jim. To anticipate.

In this moment, anticipation had become paramount.

‘What you have said is not incorrect.’ Spock drew a breath and prepared himself to attend, with what was for him the most sensitive area of anatomy, that which was Jim’s most sensitive area. The ensuing reaction would obliterate any lines drawn between their two bodies, separating one from the other.

In a sense, Jim’s instincts regarding their actions could not have been more accurate.

This was needed.

Yet from the roll of Jim’s hips and its uneven rhythm, he had not come to this decision for the same reasons Spock had found to prove its necessity.

His hand closed around Jim’s erection. Jim shuddered from the center of his gut, growing heavier where his back was braced against Spock’s chest and hips, the muscles of his gluteus maximus pressed to the latter, his legs spreading to grant Spock easier access while strengthening his stance. Jim was also capable of simultaneous avenues of thought, though for him it was pure reflex, whereas for Spock the tactic had been cultivated over the course of two decades.

The thin skin and hot-blooded vein on the underside of Jim’s erection provided the ultimate vulnerability. Spock’s thumb brushed the length from the tip to the base and so he was flooded with every flush, throb, and shiver. Their shared pulse beat erratically. Jim’s lips parted and his abdominal muscles clenched. He covered Spock’s hand with both of his own, slotting his fingers between Spock’s fingers, and together they squeezed and twisted, pulled and rolled, based upon a speed dictated by the needs of Jim’s arousal and the needs of Spock’s fingertips.

Jim moaned. He turned his face to the side and into Spock’s shoulder, biting down upon a mouthful of thick fabric to muffle each sound before it left his mouth. His shoulders tensed and hunched, but Spock was aware of the rest of his body only distantly, centered instead upon the heartbeat in his erection. Frustration and pleasure were joined there inexplicably and illogically; one only heightened the other to new extremes with each volley, with each thrust.

It was not as though Spock was unaware of the clash of emotions or conflicting needs. Yet while he was able to maintain control over his own, Jim’s broke against him in a drowning wave.

Jim began to curse, Terran expletives more important for the quality of the voice that spoke them—broken, shuddering, eager, and young—than for their meaning. With his fingers, Jim pushed Spock’s thumb against the slit in the head of his arousal, which was sticky, sensitive, and hunger burst between them.

Over and over.

‘In and out,’ Jim mumbled, followed by a laugh, followed by a whimper. ‘Just like—like meditation, right, Spock?’

He hissed at a self-serving circle that Spock pressed against skin too thin, too soft and too vulnerable, to offer any other purpose than gratification. Spock, too, hissed between his teeth.

‘’m gonna—’ Jim warned.

‘That,’ Spock replied, ‘is obvious.’

Jim laughed, sharp and incredulous. ‘ _God,_ ’ he said, not an entreaty, but a complaint.

The ensuing release left Spock’s fingers sticky and nearly numb, having held something beyond pleasure.

The aftereffects rippled through his mind in a widening arc, creating a temporary haze in his clarity. Spock could not in all good conscience call it a disturbance, but he was self-aware enough to be able to pinpoint when his judgment was impaired.

He stretched his fingers out one at a time, awaiting the return of regulated circulation that would cool his fingertips and return his temperature to normal.

Jim was slumped against him and breathing in the same large, unsustainable gasps that Spock had not observed since his first two days on Vulcan. His mouth hung open; he lifted his hand to rub his face, wide-eyed and cheeks red. It was not, objectively, an attractive difference in his usual appearance. His skin was mottled and blotchy. He had overextended himself.

Spock was not put off. His inclination to observe Jim was brought on by the same motive he had found for spurring on this indulgence. The chance to catalog further variables in Jim’s behavior could not be denied.

‘ _Jesus_.’

Jim was panting, his muscles slack with the effort they had expended. Glistening sweat clung to his brow. His hair had been tousled. From his exclamation, it could not be determined whether his feelings were negative or positive in nature. Spock’s telepathic sense had been temporarily muddled by the force of Jim’s orgasm and was therefore unreliable as a translator.

There was also an unprecedented tickling sensation at the center of Spock’s palm. If Jim had not already overwhelmed his sensory perceptions, he would have been tempted to rub the feeling back into his hand with the fingers of the opposite one.

‘Was it what you had anticipated?’ Spock inquired.

Jim blinked rapidly. It took seconds for his pupils to contract and settle on Spock’s face as he shifted to face him. It was almost as if he had forgotten he was not alone in the room.

Considering the bedchambers were Spock’s, this seemed a particularly egregious moment of forgetfulness on his part.

‘Huh?’

‘Perhaps you would be better served by taking a moment to gather your thoughts before speaking,’ Spock acknowledged.

It was his fault for attempting to initiate contact too soon.

It was possible that he had finally discovered an avenue where Jim could not adapt with preternatural speed. In that case, Spock was gratified that they had indulged in the connection Jim had been angling for all along. Spock could not remain unaware of Jim’s weaknesses just as he must remain mindful of his strengths.

‘You’re the one who asked me,’ Jim said. He blinked again. ‘Did you ask me something? I’m pretty sure it was a question.’

‘Concentrate,’ Spock suggested.

Jim shut his eyes; his face slackened. He had made no incursion toward the bed, no attempt to wrest himself free of Spock’s superior hold. That in itself was an unprecedented demonstration of trust. Spock would not have expected it—save for the fact that Jim’s greatest strength was his commitment to the unexpected.

Without warning, Jim’s eyes opened once more, his lips parted. ‘It wasn’t,’ he said. He had followed Spock’s advice and had been successful. Should he extrapolate from that success in future endeavors, they might enjoy further achievements to fulfill their potential. ‘It was _nothing_ like I’d, uh, anticipated.’

He did not sound the way he did when he had been disappointed.

Instead, he scratched his belly lazily and touched Spock’s hand with his own, gripping it, giving it a squeeze. In that same moment he turned so that they were at last face to face, however briefly the contact lasted, before he took a few steps backward and dropped to the bed.

‘I like surprises,’ he added, stifling a yawn and grappling with a grin. ‘You gonna join me here or stay up all night being weird or what?’

‘Given the nature of our planned endeavors, rest is advisable.’ Spock reached for a napkin with which to clean his hand.

‘You know, if you came over here, I could clean your fingers off for you,’ Jim said. ‘I mean, an eye for an eye, a licked finger for a licked finger…’

‘Rest is advisable,’ Spock repeated. He was thorough but swift when it came to his ablutions, which Jim would not be. He had assigned the task according to who would achieve it most efficiently.

Jim’s eyes were shut, his face crushed against the nearest pillow, when Spock settled on the bed beside him, but he was not yet asleep.

‘I’m gonna sleep like a baby tonight.’ Jim scooted closer until his elbow, his hip, and his calf all bumped similar areas of Spock’s body. When he cracked one eye open, it was only to meet Spock’s appraising gaze. Jim blinked first; Spock did not blink at all. ‘Only without the nightmares. And the crying. And someday, Spock, I’m gonna lick your fingers _all over_. Maybe even bite ‘em a little. Did I ruin the moment?’

‘Your definitions both of “ruining” and “the moment” are unclear,’ Spock said.

Jim snorted, slung one heavy, loose arm around Spock’s waist, and slept—if not like an infant, then certainly without interruption.

Therefore Spock, too, was able to achieve the same.

*


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock's version of a morning after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Punkleonard on tumblr drew a [fantaaaaastic acrobatic shirtless Jim](http://spicyshimmy.tumblr.com/post/83023287237):
> 
>  

They didn’t cuddle the next morning.

But it wasn’t like Jim had been expecting them to.

In fact, Spock wasn’t even in bed when Jim rolled over and off the opposite edge, halfway onto the floor before he was fully conscious. He felt good; he remembered why he felt good; then, kicking his legs out behind him, he remembered _exactly_ why he felt good while discovering the reason was long gone, the mattress cool where he should’ve been.

Jim rolled all the way out of bed and onto the floor, leeching the last of the night’s cool temperatures from the tiles; after that, he found a change of clothing waiting for him on the bedside table, along with a tracking chip to be injected subcutaneously. It pinched, then stung, then numbed the area—on the inside of Jim’s wrist—and by the time Jim was dressed, Spock had returned, wearing a similar outfit.

They looked like smugglers, not like princes.

Spock was wearing a beaten leather jacket and his sleeves were too long and Jim whistled—this time out of approval and not because of Spock’s sensitive Vulcan ears twitching at the high-pitched sound.

Jim’s jacket was quilted at the shoulders; his shirt underneath it was basically mesh. He appreciated the attention to detail. Spock had finally noticed he was into showing off his body. And, to be honest, Jim could use the ventilation.

‘What do you think?’ Jim asked, doing a twirl of presentation, not in front of a mirror—which would have been more forgiving than Spock.

For his part, Spock didn’t pause to look up from his PADD. He was too busy making last-minute arrangements, head bowed over his calculations and orders like their lives depended on it.

Maybe they did. Jim didn’t know what was in there specifically.

He lifted his hands to his hair, mussing it up from where he’d brushed it back. If he wasn’t going to get any feedback then he would have to follow his own instincts. Spock couldn’t complain about the results later when Jim had given him every opportunity to weigh in.

They had an escort of five men to the docking bay, something no one but Jim seemed to enjoy the irony of.

‘Get it?’ Jim resisted the urge to nudge Spock’s side with his elbow. ‘Because we’re about to be captured by Romulans and they’re making sure we get delivered right to their patrol. That’s gotta go against some kind of guardsman oath, am I right?’

No one took him up on the joke. Maybe he was being insensitive, not tuning into the Vulcan turmoil they might have felt about letting Spock fly off to be captured with only a mouthy human and no additional guard for protection. There was no sense risking the extra men. This was a mission that relied on the principle of fewer numbers, fewer casualties.

The shuttle was definitely  _small_  enough to be piloted by two men alone. No kitchen; sparse quarters; and a replicator that was ready to short out the second Jim looked at it funny. He could tell a fellow pain in the ass when he saw one.

The ceiling was low enough that they had to duck just to get in under the door. Jim went first to give Spock a chance to say all those emotional goodbyes he’d been holding on to. That, and he needed a head start to familiarize himself with the main control console. If everything was in Vulcan, he was going to want some study time.

Just because this was Spock’s plan it didn’t mean Jim was going to let him pilot.

He’d taken a backseat on his immediate future long enough. If he was lucky, Vulcan flight controls wouldn’t be too counterintuitive for him to pick up.

Jim didn’t know what made him think he would be lucky.

At least he had managed to figure out the sensor pad and the autopilot when Spock’s shadow fell over him.

‘Quit breathing down my neck; I happen to be an awesome pilot,’ Jim said, waving him off. ‘I’ve got this under control.’

‘The coordinates have already been set,’ Spock replied. ‘You need only activate them. However, as you do not read Vulcan—’

‘I _know_ ships, all right? Big ones, small ones; we’ve got rapport. I know what I’m doing.’ Jim stared at the dashboard in front of him, unfamiliar text flashing back at him like a nightmare, then went for the likeliest candidate: a button nearest to the star chart. When the engine rumbled to life and they achieved lift-off, Jim stretched his arms and clasped his hands behind his head to brace it, letting a full grin wash over him as he leaned back. ‘Beginner’s luck,’ he explained. ‘Don’t beat yourself up about being wrong _too_ much. If you want, I’d be willing to help.’

Spock’s expression suggested—however vaguely; however subtly—that he wasn’t the one he was thinking about beating up. But he settled in on a seat opposite Jim, as out of place in his role as a sehlat would’ve been on the San Francisco streets.

That wasn’t going to work.

‘You look too royal, Spock,’ Jim said.

Spock paused before he turned to meet Jim’s eyes. ‘A curious choice of conversational openers. Explain yourself.’

‘We’ve gotta go incognito if we’re gonna…well, stay incognito. I mean, look around you. We’re shuttle-runners. We’re galactic mercenaries. We’re basically trash—tough trash, obviously, since we wanna show we’ve got enough game to be worth the transport trouble—but that’s trash all the same. It’s not enough that we dress the part; we’ve gotta _be_ the part. And your posture’s just so…’

‘Vulcan,’ Spock said.

‘Vulcan _prince_ ,’ Jim replied. ‘There’s a difference. Do you even know how to relax?’

‘Regardless of his profession, a Vulcan would not relinquish the tenets that define him.’

‘You’re the stuffiest smuggler I ever met, that’s for sure.’ Jim sighed. A finicky replicator, a straight-backed partner, tight quarters, and the knowledge that they were flying straight into Alliance territory with the express purpose of being captured by their ruthless enemies.

Actually, Jim had been on worse flights.

Plus, the temperature regulator in the shuttle was doing a decent job—for Jim’s liking, at least, though it was probably too cold for Spock’s tastes. He’d never complain; Jim had to guess. He could always try testing the link between them, checking for a hidden shiver or some secret frisson of discomfort, but for the time being he was satisfied reaping the benefits of not sweating out all his liquids for once.

‘So,’ Jim said. ‘You know any fun games to pass the time?’

He hadn’t been serious; Spock didn’t dignify the joke with a reply.

It was going to be a long ride, especially if Jim intended to keep his pilot cred—by keeping his pilot seat. The second he stood up Spock was going to slide in with his Vulcan stamina and outlast him, so Jim had to maintain his control over his territory.

‘If it is implausible that I am what I am dressed as,’ Spock began, totally unexpectedly, ‘that is a factor that may diminish the odds of our success.’

‘Nah,’ Jim said. ‘You’ll be fine. Just do that stormy, shadowy expression and don’t talk—you’ll be my ruthless Vulcan bodyguard or something. No matter what, we’ll still be smarter than whoever picks us up. The odds of _that_ aren’t gonna diminish anytime soon.’

‘You are nervous,’ Spock said.

Jim snorted. ‘I’m not nervous. Are you sure you aren’t nervous?’

But Spock didn’t get nervous. Vulcans had nerves; Jim knew that from the night before. They had nerves and nerve endings and they felt things—they felt things a _lot_ , which might have been why Jim had come harder than he ever had in his entire life. And it might have been why Jim felt plenty more than he’d wanted to feel, what he’d planned on feeling, and why he could only hope—while knowing how pointless it was—that Spock was still feeling the after-effects.

Jim could shake them. He had to, for Sam’s sake. All of that had nothing to do with what Spock was talking about.

For the time being, Jim wasn’t thinking about it, and he sure as hell wasn’t feeling it.

‘Your brother—’ Spock began.

‘Whoa.’ Jim spun around in his chair. ‘Hold up. Reel it in. I know it’s not your strong suit, but you _can_ find another topic of conversation.’

‘You would do well to confront the reality of his predicament sooner rather than later,’ Spock said.

Like Jim didn’t know that. Like he needed Vulcan counseling on top of the Vulcan everything else he’d been suffering through. He knew what he had to do. He was planning on crossing that bridge when he came to it. He would deal with seeing Sam when he actually got to see Sam.

Getting worked up before that happened seemed like a waste of time. There was no point in talking about it; of all things, Jim would have guessed Spock would be more than happy with the silence, since long droughts of conversation were kind of his thing.

‘I’ve just about had it with you telling me what’s good for me,’ Jim replied. There was no bite to his words. It was good-natured, as close as he could get with the buzz of their impending mission humming in the back of his brain. Now that was a distraction Jim knew how to manage. He didn’t need Spock messing with his rhythm by bringing up Sam, of all things. ‘It’s getting old, Spock. Sweet, but old.’

Spock raised an eyebrow.

‘Is that how you perceive me?’

Jim dragged his boot along the floor of the ship, spinning his chair on its axis. He chewed his lip where it was stiff and dry, softening up the skin under his teeth. All around them, the engines hummed with their pre-programmed course. It seemed needlessly antiseptic—flying without piloting—but what Jim wasn’t about to admit to Spock that he’d been right about something.

It would’ve messed up their whole dynamic.

‘ _Well_ …’

‘This distraction is not one of your more subtle approaches,’ Spock said. ‘Would it not be better to prepare your mind in advance to deal with the prospect of your brother’s rescue?’

‘Dunno.’ Jim shrugged, mostly because he knew that kind of apathy was going to drive Spock crazy. ‘I kinda figured I’d wing it. See what happens when we’re captured and go from there. ’

That sentence felt strange in his mouth. It wasn’t in Jim’s nature to admit defeat, and here they were, speeding toward it at an artificially generated rate. Maybe there was something to Spock’s methods after all—if Jim hadn’t known where they were headed, it wouldn’t have bothered him at all.

He had definitely spent too long on Vulcan. It was just good timing, getting out while he could.

‘“Wing it”,’ Spock repeated.

‘Well, when you say it, it just sounds crazy,’ Jim replied.

‘Yet when you say it, you believe it does not.’

Jim shrugged again. Making himself dizzy with the chair was one way to offset the other disturbance in his equilibrium. Internal balance meant nothing when he was spinning in actual, physical circles—another strategy Spock might not care for, but it served Jim well enough. ‘You didn’t bring a portable chessboard or anything like that, did you? No? Figures. Bet you were thinking of meditating the whole way, not entertaining guests.’

‘There are innumerable options with lesser value and purpose.’

‘And we’ve got…’ Jim caught himself with a boot to the dashboard, leaning over the course headings to check out their progress. At least he could read the numbers without any trouble. ‘Seven hours, give or take a couple of over-zealous Romulan patrol ships. Seven hours of meditating. Maybe I’ll just nap.’

Jim kicked back, feet up on the dash, glancing at Spock to see if any of his disapproval showed on his face—a flush to his cheeks, maybe, or a tightening of his mouth.

It didn’t.

Jim shut his eyes, wriggling in the chair until his ass found the closest thing to a comfortable groove it was going to get. When he shifted, the chair creaked. Spock’s steady breathing was barely audible over the hum of the old shuttle engines, but Jim could feel it even when he couldn’t hear it. It kept tricking his natural rhythms, his lungs constricting without warning, searching extra air and a new pattern to improve on his instincts.

Jim huffed, snorting. Spock didn’t ask him if something was wrong.

There was plenty to think about that didn’t have a thing to do with Sam.

Romulan torture techniques, for one. Vulcan meditation rituals. Spock’s hand on Jim’s dick the night before. Fighting Klingons in a Romulan coliseum. Broken bones; bruises; blood.

But Sam was behind it all. Jim cracked one eye open to find Spock sitting, stiff as ever, watching Jim closely, and not betraying any of the heat he had under the surface. Jim knew it was there because he’d felt it in the palm of Spock’s hand.

It was either think about Sam or think about the night before. Rock meeting hard place. Jim’s hard place, even, although Spock wasn’t likely to appreciate the dirty pun. As long as he kept thinking about it in physical terms, he could he enjoy it without having to ask himself any questions about it. Jim grinned and Spock didn’t, which was the story of Jim’s life so far.

‘My brother,’ Jim said. ‘What about him? You interested in more than one of the Kirks, or is this just clinical for you? Knowledge to add to the databank inside your head?’

‘You think of him often,’ Spock replied.

Jim rolled out the beginning of a knot in his shoulder, rubbing the tender muscles between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Yeah, that’s true. Although—and you probably know this already, too—I’ve been trying not to.’

‘The personal sacrifice and risk you have embraced thus far suggests he is an individual worthy of some manner of devotion,’ Spock said. ‘Whether it is general or personal devotion remains to be seen.’

‘Aw, c’mon—you don’t trust my judgment?’

Spock’s silence made his answer clear enough. He was goading Jim into revealing as much as he could—and, even when Jim could feel it working, he knew he would end up giving something away eventually. He might as well be the one in charge of when that something came and what it was.

‘Because he’s my brother,’ Jim continued.

‘An established fact.’

‘All of this is stuff you can’t get just by…’ Jim waved his hand between Spock’s head and his, temple to temple. It was the most accurate description Jim had of what _they_ had. Wordless, vague—but real. Real weird, too. ‘So why don’t you? Flip me open and read between my lines.’

Even as Jim said it, the words didn’t sit well with him. He twisted a frown into a lopsided grin and Spock favored him with more of the same. No answer. No need.

‘He’s special,’ Jim said finally. ‘Whether you believe me or not, it doesn’t change who he is. You’ll see once you meet him. He’s a hell of a lot better than me.’

Spock blinked. It didn’t seem like a reaction so much as a well-timed necessity of biology. Vulcans didn’t sweat, but their eyes needed a break the same as everyone else’s. Actually, given what Spock had told him about that creepy second eyelid, they probably needed a break about half as often.

Another self-inflicted distraction.

Jim’s thoughts weren’t going in circles. Instead, they kept branching off in tangents, diving down the nearest dark passage and following the circuitous track to its end, then returning to the main thought only to deviate again. It was like the inverse of meditation: endlessly firing synapses instead of blissful peace.

He’d always told Spock he wouldn’t be any good at it. Even now he was pretty sure any brief success he’d found had come from them touching minds, from him stealing Spock’s natural calm to use as his own.

‘Still, you  _could_ speak up in my defense,’ Jim said.

Spock opened his mouth, hesitating before he spoke. Jim leaned forward, interested in spite of his better judgment.

‘I have never met your brother,’ Spock said. ‘Therefore, it would be inadvisable for me to offer an opinion on the quality of his character.’

‘So even  _you_  like him better than you like me,’ Jim replied.

That figured. It was only a matter of time. He was delaying the inevitable by getting to know Spock first, that was all.

‘You speak of him with admiration,’ Spock observed.

‘Well.’ Jim shrugged, ducking his head to stare at his hands. He rubbed his palms together, studying the dry sound they made in the controlled atmosphere of their ship. ‘Maybe there’s a reason for that.’

He wanted to spar all of a sudden, get up and pace, maybe find something to hit. The bridge of their shuttle wasn’t big enough for any of those things. In fact, it was starting to make him feel claustrophobic.

If Spock had told him about their route, he might’ve been able to plan accordingly, download a few interesting essays to read on his borrowed PADD—anything to keep from having to continue this discussion; it was the only thing worse than being alone with his thoughts.

But, like everything else, the lack of options on their trip was probably another lesson in the making. Another of Spock’s meticulous plans; another of his ridiculous tests.

‘There are no Vulcans who would enter into an endeavor they believed doomed to failure,’ Spock said at last. ‘Therefore, there is no need for you to concern yourself with the outcome of our mission.’

‘Is that your version of a pep talk?’ Jim lifted his head, rubbing his wrist where he’d injected the subcutaneous tracker. It was starting to itch. ‘Because I think we’ve finally found something you’re bad at, Spock.’

‘You cannot allow yourself to become distracted. It is never advisable—but now, especially.’

‘And if it was your mom out there being held by Alliance forces?’ Jim waited for Spock’s anger; he saw nothing and felt nothing, still wishing he hadn’t wasted it so early in their relationship. ‘So you’re better at covering it up than I am. That doesn’t mean it isn’t there. I _know_ what’s in there, Spock,’ Jim added. ‘Last night—’

‘Distraction will mean not your ruin, but the loss of your brother,’ Spock said. Not only was against spooning the morning after, he was against acknowledging the night before ever happened. Jim wasn’t surprised. He wasn’t daunted, either. ‘Though it may seem illogical at first, you are capable of understanding that you must forget that which matters most in order to protect it.’

‘And that’s the Vulcan way?’

Spock nodded.

‘No wonder you’re all so screwed up,’ Jim said. ‘That’s no way to live. Treating everything that means something like it means nothing—that can’t be healthy.’

‘I am not unwell.’

‘That’s not the kinda sick I’m talking about, Spock.’ Jim winced as he scratched too hard at the tracker and it gave him a warning shock, pinching him below the flesh. ‘I can’t tune it out. I _won’t_. Maybe you don’t need to care about stuff in order to fight for it, but that’s not how I work.’

‘I am aware of how you work,’ Spock said. ‘Should you continue to toy with the tracker, you will render it non-functional. Should it break or malfunction during our trials, it will only serve to complicate our means of escape.’

‘But there’s a tracker in my head, isn’t there?’ Jim messed with his wrist a moment or two longer just to prove he could, that he was acting on his own terms, then tapped his temple with his forefinger. ‘When all else fails, I’m guessing you have a backup plan for every backup plan and then some.’

He could practically hear Spock’s reply: that there would come a time when guessing would no longer be necessary. Something told Jim guessing would always be necessary, whether Spock was actively working to preserve the mystery or not. As unnatural as he acted, that was the one thing that came naturally to him—also the one thing that drove Jim crazy, more than his touch, and that was saying something.

‘What’m I thinking now?’ Jim asked impulsively.

‘Unclear.’

‘Is that unclear like you don’t know or unclear like my thoughts are a disappointing mess threatening to ruin everything?’ Jim asked.

‘Neither, specifically,’ Spock replied. ‘If you must know, the true answer is closer to the latter.’

Of course it was.

Jim was actually looking forward to being captured by the Alliance. It was something Sam had done everything he could to prevent, risking his life time and time again—only so Jim could throw himself into it the first chance he got with Sam out of the way.

‘Well,’ Jim said, ‘at least you’re always honest. Never try to spare my feelings.’

Actually, that was a relief. Jim could trust what Spock said—if Spock chose to say anything at all—no matter how much it stung.

There was a round, red mark on the inside of Jim’s wrist; the faint finger-shapes on his hips and between his thighs had long since faded. Soon he would start to question whether or not it had been a desert hallucination that anything had happened with Spock in Spock’s bedroom.

When Jim looked up again, Spock was still watching him. Jim almost felt like a distant star being observed through a telescope under that scrutiny.

Spock wasn’t a stargazing type.

With Spock’s attitude, it wasn’t hard for Jim to remind himself of that.

‘Okay,’ Jim said. ‘You win. Let’s meditate.’

*


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy bunnies and chocolate and Spock intoxication day!

At zero-six-hundred-twenty-three, forty-four seconds past the minute, local time, the red dot appeared on the tracking screen.

Spock’s calculations had been accurate. The Alliance patrol had caught wind of them. It could not be a Romulan ship, as it was not cloaked; its presence on their scanner was proof of that.

Jim took his boots from the dash where they’d been braced, observing the proximity of the signal.

‘Explain to me again what our plan is,’ he said.

Spock did not need to look at him in order to ascertain that this was another example of Jim’s ill-timed humor. It was not conversation offered in earnest and thus did not require a serious reply.

‘I’m just saying,’ Jim went on, ‘I mean—we’re sure they’re not just gonna blast us out of their space, right? There’s a reason it was a better idea to be disguised than being our natural, charming, ransom-able selves?’

‘If you are nervous,’ Spock said, ‘there are better ways to address it than to indulge in idle conversation.’

Jim sat back in his chair, never taking his eyes off the red dot that marked the approaching vessel.

‘Comforting,’ he said.

Spock joined him at the console to raise their shields. If they made their capture too simple, the Alliance would suspect a measure of deception.

‘The Alliance might be suspicious at suddenly acquiring two more royal members of the Empire, bringing their total number of captives to three,’ Spock said. He observed Jim out of the corner of his eye, tracking the physical presentation of his emotional state.

Jim had proven himself time and again as someone who did not balk in the face of explicit danger. Spock did not deem it likely that he would prove otherwise when their ship was taken, but all the same, it would be foolish of him to rest upon assumption and past precedent for new circumstances.

‘They’re not gonna know what we look like?’ Jim added. ‘I don’t know about you, but on  _Earth_ —’

‘In the eventuality that we are recognized, then the cover we have established on Vulcan will serve to explain our presence here,’ Spock replied. ‘We sought to engage in a private interlude without the watchful eye of a royal entourage.’

‘A secret honeymoon?’ Jim’s demeanor shifted. ‘I like it, Spock. That’s downright  _romantic_.’

The first volley of fire struck their ship, rocking the hull. The enemy vessel was not yet within visual range, but their firepower was considerable. Spock was nearly thrown off his feet. Jim jerked forward, bracing his feet against the floor.

‘What, no warning?’ Jim asked. ‘Whatever happened to a friendly hail before you recruit your next gladiators?’

‘We can withstand three more hits of equal power before experiencing total destruction of our vessel,’ Spock began.

‘Uh-uh,’ Jim said. ‘Not gonna happen. I’m taking this thing off autopilot. _Finally_.’

It was inadvisable for Jim to take charge of a navigational system that was not a language in which he was fluent. Logically, Spock could not endorse this plan. Yet he also knew that Jim could not be dissuaded once he had already decided on a course of action, and to split his concentration now could have dire consequences. Spock braced his hands against the edge of the controls, setting himself at the viewfinder and transmitting what he saw there to Jim.

Jim would recognize his future maneuvers as being based upon good instinct, but that instinct, in this case, was aided by fact.

Against the odds, Jim’s skills as a pilot were not their downfall.

The shuttle, however, was not suited to the strain of Jim’s inspired, if erratic, piloting style. The engine protested; silent phaser fire streaked past them in the darkness. Jim managed to evade being hit on three separate occasions, but with each maneuver, the reaction time of the shuttle’s engines slowed.

‘This thing’s gonna fall to pieces before we even get taken captive,’ Jim said. ‘’Least we’ll go down in style—and not ‘cause they hit us.’

Despite the gravity of his words, Jim let out a whoop of what sounded like it came from a place of excitement or even, however unlikely it seemed, delight. He laughed afterward, which indicated he was indeed enjoying himself.

Having harbored nervousness that had rendered him impossible to converse with, it was only now that they had run afoul of their anticipated enemy that the nervousness had been banished. No signs of it remained.

‘Aw, look.’ Jim was nearly thrown from the pilot’s seat when the shuttle shuddered and dropped; Spock caught him without thinking. ‘They’re hailing us after all. Guess we’re pissing ‘em off, or they figure we might have something worth stealing on board, which is why we’re so determined to escape.’

‘We do,’ Spock replied. ‘A sizeable amount of gold-pressed Latinum, recently stolen. Worth more than our combined ransoms.’

‘So we’re not just mercs—we’re good ones.’ Jim’s fingers brushed Spock’s as he steadied himself. ‘You really do think of everything.’ He brought his fist down on the dashboard a moment later, opening communications as the emergency power turned on, the rest of the shuttle going black. ‘Any chance of a boost?’

There was no laughter from the other line. Spock recognized the orders barked in Klingon. They were being told not to resist and to prepare for boarding. He replied in kind that they would adhere to these orders, then cut the hailing frequency.

‘This is one hell of a date, Spock,’ Jim said. ‘Some guys go for dinner, a movie, maybe a meet-and-greet with the family… But you? You bring on the Klingons.’

His wild grin suggested that the nervousness had not simply disappeared—rather, it had been converted to energy. There was a bruise on his cheekbone and a cut on his chin.

‘Hey,’ Jim added, reaching up to brush his thumb over Spock’s lower lip. It came away with a smudge of green on the tip. ‘You’re bleeding.’

‘At this time, I cannot blame your abilities as a pilot so much as the sub-standard vessel with which you were called upon to work,’ Spock replied.

Jim’s expression changed to something without translation. It was then that the Klingons beamed aboard.

Spock was once again surprised at Jim’s behavior—his silence as they were taken prisoner and cuffed; that he offered no scathing remark or foolish insult as they were escorted from their ship. His eyes were dark and barely blinking, fixed upon the captain of the patrol trip as they were brought before her, kicked in the backs of their knees to drop and bow.

Without Jim’s protests, they were brought swiftly to the brig, roughed up to a predictable degree in thanks for the difficulty they had presented before they were captured.

Spock’s firsthand experience with the Klingons was limited at best. He had slain their assassins when they had come for him; interrogation was never a means of procuring any valuable information with such a stubborn race. However, he had learned enough to understand that, in a fundamental way, the Klingons respected the struggle with which Jim had provided them. Without strength, they would be without merit; without merit, they were without a future. If they had allowed themselves to be taken too easily, they may not have been considered as viable candidates for the games.

‘Games’ was a misnomer if Spock had ever heard one, but he had not come to protest at the recreational activities of the Alliance.

Jim landed roughly in their shared cell. In spite of his silence, the Klingons were not fond of humans, the most visible face of the Terran Empire. They did not require provocation in order to act upon their resentment.

Spock drew himself into a sitting position with his back to the wall. He had observed upon entering the brig that three of the five cells were occupied, two with paired humans and one with a body sleeping in a ball, their features obscured. All were potential opponents, not taking into account the bored Klingon soldiers who would doubtless find it a worthy pastime to face the more promising warriors.

They would pose the most obvious physical threats.

He maintained his silence until their captors had erected the force field across their cell, vacating the area. There were no sentinels left behind to observe the prisoners; this was no doubt because Klingons found the idea of taking captives so distasteful that they could not find anyone willing to keep watch.

Jim rolled from his position on the floor, favoring his right shoulder as he found his way to his knees.

‘Hell of a welcome,’ he said. ‘Don’t tell me—you forgot to warn me about that part, too.’

‘My calculations did include a contingency for our treatment after capture,’ Spock acknowledged.

He found Jim’s eyes with his own, then tilted his head to indicate that he should come closer. If they were going to engage in a discussion, then it would serve them better to be circumspect, rather than chance being overheard and discovered.

While they were in shared captivity, they could not regard their fellow prisoners as allies. They would be in direct competition with each other soon enough. If they were wise, they would utilize every advantage, even those yet unseen. Spock could not afford to give any up.

It was no longer simply for his own sake that he maintained unassailable vigilance.

Jim came forward, still on his knees, in what would have otherwise been a direct violation of Spock’s preference for a respectful perimeter of personal space. At this time, however, Spock could fault it.

‘But hey,’ Jim added, grinning around his swollen lower lip, ‘at least we’ve got each other for company, right? And compared to that shuttle, this cell is almost palatial. I can really stretch my legs in here. Enjoy the sights and smells.’

Spock allowed him to release the energies he had forced himself not to expend in order to facilitate a smooth capture. His breath gusted hot over Spock’s cheek and jaw, then shifted to cool as he sucked a breath back into his lungs.

‘Could’ve been worse, anyway,’ Jim said. His eyes found Spock’s in the grim, gray light. ‘So what now? We lie back and wait to be delivered?’

‘The position you assume has little bearing on our plan,’ Spock replied.

‘Tell me that was a joke, Spock.’

Spock could neither confirm nor deny what Jim desired to hear. The truth was more complicated than a mere yes or no.

‘I’ll take your silence as Vulcan restraint,’ Jim said, ‘and I’ll take _that_ as an admission of humor. You can be a funny guy when you’re not being anything but funny.’

‘Our continued patience will prove our greatest weapon for the present, in order to avoid further punishment from our captors.’

‘’Cause we don’t want to arrive at these games in post-Klingon condition.’ Jim nodded, an action that made his hair tickle Spock’s brow. ‘I gotcha. Wouldn’t want to start out handicapped, even if they aren’t exactly being gentle with the merchandise.’

‘To them, we are expendable.’

Jim chuckled—another incongruous choice of emotional displays—bumping Spock’s shoulder with his own. It appeared from what were now numerous examples that he sought physical contact, perhaps as a sign of solidarity.

It was not necessary; their connection went beyond the physical. Yet Spock had no reason to place distance between them.

He allowed it.

‘Shows what they know,’ Jim said. ‘Now we’ve just gotta hope none of our neighbors snores too loud, right? Might get in the way of our well-deserved break time. When you look at it like that, this is the closest we’ll ever get to a vacation.’

Jim settled down on the floor, which was hard and unclean, twisting first in one direction, then in another. He tested how it felt to lean on one elbow, which was bruised and caused him to hiss in regret, then the other, which he surrendered in favor of stretching out on his side, cheek pillowed against his upper arm. When he exaggerated a yawn and shut his eyes, he still could not hide the tumult of his thoughts from Spock with the display.

It was not for Spock’s sake, then.

Spock rested his palms on his thighs and remained as he was: kneeling, calm but ready.

The minutes passed and Spock kept track of every one. No sound could be heard from the other cells. By Spock’s count, they were alone for nearly five hours before food was brought to them.

This gave Jim cause to rise and stretch, poking the pile of worms on the plate before him.

‘Well,’ Jim said, ‘my food’s still alive.’

‘We will need to sustain our physical strength with nourishment,’ Spock replied.

‘Or we need to not eat live worms because that’ll demoralize us completely.’ Jim scrutinized Spock for a long moment, a minute and thirteen seconds exactly, before he rolled his eyes and his shoulders, not having found whatever it was he sought. ‘Are you seriously going to eat that? I don’t know whether to be disgusted or impressed.’

‘Vulcans do not eat flesh,’ Spock informed him.

‘Well, isn’t that convenient.’ Jim brought his nose to the plate, flinching away when one of the worms contracted and flicked his face with the pointed tip of its sinewy body. ‘ _Ugh_. Spock, my dinner’s attacking me.’

‘You did not allow me to finish,’ Spock said. ‘We do not engage in eating animal proteins; however, in dire circumstances, exceptions must be made.’

‘So you’re saying it’s better to eat these than to starve to death,’ Jim replied. ‘ _That’s_  appetizing.’

‘I am not requesting you do anything that I would not,’ Spock said.

If that did not serve as a proper explanation, then nothing he offered would convince Jim to partake in the necessary act for nutrition. It would have to be his decision. Spock busied himself with his meal, consuming that which was called _gagh_  in small increments so as not to overwhelm the capabilities of his digestive system. It was unpleasant, but fighting on an empty stomach would have been more so.

‘Would it appease you to know that the taste is said to be better fresh?’ Spock inquired.

Jim groaned. He still had not touched his meal, but he was watching Spock with grim fascination, mouth slack as his eyes tracked the movement of Spock’s hand from plate to mouth.

In truth, it offended Spock’s sensibilities more to be eating with his fingers than what he was eating itself. But this was hardly a relatable problem for Jim to acknowledge and use in order to overcome his own inhibitions.

They were alive against Spock’s fingertips. They ceased to be alive within Spock’s mouth.

‘Well,  _gourmet_  worms.’ Jim dug a handful up from his plate, staring at them as they wriggled between his fingers. Their bodies glistened in the reflected light from the force field. ‘Why didn’t you tell me they were feeding us the good stuff, Spock?’

He lowered the worms to his mouth. Spock did not afford him the same rapt attention as Jim had given in return. He did not need to watch someone else eating what he had already begun to ingest on his own.

There was, however, a disproportionate amount of squishing that interfered with Spock’s concentration, and Jim let out a groan of pain that suggested he had suffered grievous injury rather than disgust.

Spock waited until the sound of his chewing had subsided before he judged it safe to raise his eyes. Jim was scowling, facial muscles screwed up tight as if belatedly attempting to resist what had already been swallowed.

‘Guess it doesn’t count if I return the stuff the way it came, huh?’ Jim forced a grin, eyes watering. ‘But I’ve gotta ask—are they supposed to keep moving inside your mouth?’

Spock nodded. Jim shuddered.

He ate all the same.

His revulsion was nearly palpable and Spock, who was committed to the same, equally undesirable task, controlled his aversion to the taste and the experience by considering other matters with more lasting consequences.

The bond between them had deepened, growing more rapidly and to greater effect than Spock had anticipated.

There were always variables in these matters, as they depended upon the unique properties of the individuals involved. Jim more than exceeded expectations; he defied them. Before Spock was a young man whose face was contorting as wildly as the worms upon his plate, yet Spock knew him from other perspectives, and could not judge him solely upon that with which he was presented.

Their meals were finished, though they did not sit well in either of their stomachs. Jim cleared both plates to a far corner of the cell with a flourish, then punctuated the silence of the brig with the occasional wretched groan.

When Spock caught his eye after the first, Jim tilted his head conspiratorially. He was not sick; neither was he injured beyond his ability to bear. Spock came to understand, after the third groan, that he sought for the other captives to infer that his condition was less than the truth.

Spock would not have engaged in this particular style of deception—after all, it was surprisingly simple—but he could recognize its efficacy. He arched a brow and Jim grinned around his next moan, even going so far as to wink for only Spock’s eyes.  

While Jim was otherwise engaged, Spock meditated on those topics that were currently most relevant. He confronted the uncertainty of their success and sought potential avenues of action based on equally uncertain paths; he also acknowledged Jim and Jim’s place and the effect Jim had, both upon Spock’s plans, and upon Spock himself.

Another three hours passed in this fashion.

‘The worms were more entertaining,’ Jim told Spock when Spock concluded his meditation. ‘Disgusting and horrible and the worst thing I ever put in my mouth, but more entertaining.’

‘There will be entertainment enough soon,’ Spock replied.

Jim’s grin didn’t falter in response, but it did harden.

It was a crucial hardness.

Spock watched his mouth—more closely than he would have a mere week ago—with scrutiny that was not crucial. It was not enough to distract him from the sound of heavy boot-falls as three Klingon guards arrived, but it had become a point of interest without Jim calling attention to the area with the tip of his tongue, or by chewing the bottom lip.

The guards issued their orders. Jim waited three seconds before he stood, as Spock had done, neither of them jumping to obey—nor choosing to disobey too long and suffer the punishment.

They fell into line with the other prisoners. When cold steel closed around Spock’s wrists, binding his hands behind his back, he bore that particular Vulcan indignity without so much as a flinch. They received collars, Jim twisting his chin to one side as though to ask Spock what he thought of his appearance—as though that which bound him was an adornment.

Spock offered no comment that would draw his mind from their current task as they were led out into the open air of a cool planet, brisk wind buffeting their faces.

It was not hot, not as it had been on Vulcan.

Jim would be well served by the temperature and by the oxygen content in the air.

The rest would be Spock’s handicap to manage, and he was without doubt that it could be managed.

From what he had observed, he would retain a sizable advantage in strength against to his prospective opponents. He could afford to fight his way through the handicap of the temperature, not to mention an atmosphere that was too rich in oxygen to be ideal for Vulcan physiology.

Ahead of him in line, Jim’s shoulders straightened as he breathed in deeply. Spock saw infinitesimal shifts in his musculature as he regained some of the comfort he had been lacking, both during their captivity as well as on Vulcan. The recuperative benefits of fresh air versus a sterilized atmosphere were not proven, but Spock could allow himself to consider that Jim’s belief in what he required was strong enough to make it true.

If he imagined this was the change in location that he needed in order to perform at maximum efficiency, then it could not harm him to believe so.

The winds rifled through his hair where it was stiff on top.

The Klingons shoved the prisoner in back, barking orders in harsh, brutish tones. The words did not require a translation—it was evident to anyone with common sense that they were to march forward.

The building that was to serve as both holding compound and combat arena was long, wide, and low to the ground, a short walk from the open plain where their captors had landed their ship. The guards sent the fresh batch of prisoners below ground, sorting them indiscriminately into holding cells that were blocked off by iron bars and flickering, dusty force fields.

The floors were sand.

Jim hit the ground and came up spitting, reeling around to wrap his hands around the bars.

‘I’m starting to get  _really_ sick of sand,’ he said.

This comment was made for Spock’s benefit, as he was the only one with the knowledge to appreciate Jim’s recent experiences. However, he had refrained from using Spock’s name to catch his attention.

He was committed to their deception, even though Spock had not discussed it with him prior.

His outburst caught the attention of the guards, one of whom cried out another order in Klingon. They took one of the other prisoners and hauled Jim out again in the same wave, dragging them back up the stairs. Spock made note of every point of entry and exit; this one took Jim in the opposite direction from where they had entered the facility.

Spock did not allow himself to appear particularly interested in their selection. It would not do to reveal his interest as that of anyone more than a fellow mercenary. In some ways, it was best that Jim’s combat start early, while the guards were primarily interested in watching the prisoners fight one another.

As the day wore on and their bloodlust rose, they would seek to enter the arena themselves.

This, Spock suspected, would be when he was called upon. Vulcans were renowned for their exceptional strength.

Ideally—though Spock was not so foolish as to trust ideals in such a place as he had found himself—there would come a time for Jim to fight by his side, which would give them opportunity to prove themselves valuable beyond these games. They could be hired as guards or bought as slaves by someone with wealth and power enough to make the extravagant purchase possible. Then, they would find themselves in a unique and desirable position.

They would have infiltrated successfully.

Patience remained Spock’s lone companion in the otherwise empty holding cell. Above, the ground itself shook from impact at intervals—likely from bodies hitting the sand.

Now and then, Spock felt the call of pain, of the anger that came with pain, and of the fear that was so much a part of human anger. These came to him from Jim. But they meant that Jim, violent and determined and clever, was still alive.

Though it had always been a possibility, Spock discovered that he had never once considered that Jim would not triumph.

*


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you give a Vulcan a fork.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amazing amazing art by pixiepunch on tumblr:

Jim had plenty of choice words stashed away for when he was face to face with Spock again. In between rounds, he went over a veritable library of witty one-liners to keep his head from ringing. Somehow, he held his brain together by thinking about something other than his new collection of sprains and bruises, not to mention how much blood he had lost to a planet that hadn’t even given him its name.

By the time the cheers of a raucous, worm-eating crowd grew to a deafening roar and Jim crouched, heaving and gasping for air, over the prone figure of his sparring partner—who had admitted defeat by way of not being able to move anymore—Jim had forgotten every last one.

Which sucked, ‘cause at least three of them had been perfect. They would have gotten through Spock’s thick, green-tinged skin for sure.

Jim was hauled away to the ringing endorsement of those same cheers, dragged down a flight of steps, pushed past too many corners to navigate with blood dripping from a cut in his forehead into his right eye, and returned to the blissful peace and silence of home sweet jail cell.

But compared to what Sam must have gone through—and he’d gone through it all alone—Jim could tell himself without even wincing that this was nothing. Easy. Piece of cake.

Now there was a Terran phrase that would get an eyebrow raise out of Spock, if nothing else.

‘Hey,’ he said, lowering himself to the ground with his back against the wall. His knee was in bad shape, but the superior lung capacity he’d built up fighting Vulcans on Vulcan, not to mention the superhuman stamina he’d needed just to hold his own, had made the job a hell of a lot easier than if Spock hadn’t pushed Jim past his limits every single day of training.

There had been more to that greeting, but he couldn’t remember what it was at the moment. He had to hope that his whole attitude read as casual instead of bone-tired, though there was no fooling Spock.

Jim had never been able to fool Spock.

He cracked one eye open, rubbing the blood out of the other one. ‘You should see the other guy,’ he added.

‘I doubt I shall be afforded the opportunity,’ Spock replied from the shadows. ‘They would not have me engage in combat with a captive who has already succumbed to defeat.’

As much as Jim would have expected to be annoyed by Spock’s penchant for taking everything as literally as possible, it turned out to be almost comforting. Like a warm cup of cocoa on a winter’s day.

God, Jim was lonely. This proved it.

‘It means I kicked more ass than mine got kicked,’ Jim explained. ‘But then—you were never worried about me, were you?’

‘I had not worried,’ Spock said.

‘Great,’ Jim said. ‘That’s what I figured. Just testing you.’

No way was Spock gonna exceed his expectations out of nowhere—especially not now, with a whole host of other fun stuff to turn his attention to. Jim couldn’t stand out the way he had on Vulcan, surrounded by dry air and dry stone and dry people.

Here, everything was violent and colorful—all the things Jim brought to the table.

He was gonna have to work on finding a new angle.

Jim couldn’t see Spock’s face in the shadows, but it was easy to imagine him raising his eyebrow. He shifted in place, adjusting his perfect posture where it had started listing, infinitesimally, to the left.

‘Well?’ Spock’s voice suited the darkness. ‘Have I proven satisfactory to the terms of your challenge?’

There was something in his voice that was  _almost_ like humor. If Jim didn’t know better, he’d think Spock was making another joke.

Maybe his head had been knocked around one too many times. Jim had lost track of the count while he was fighting up above.

‘Are you asking if you passed the test?’ Jim stretched out his knee, flinching when the movement pulled at sore ligaments. ‘Because that was just a figure of speech, Spock.’

‘Ah,’ Spock replied. ‘Euphemism.’

Jim touched the flesh over his ribs, feeling over a stiff patch where he hadn’t started to bruise yet. That was bound to flower and sting soon enough. He had a whole bunch of exciting things to look forward to. Somehow, he didn’t get the sense that the Klingons were gonna heal them in between rounds. They weren’t into tender, loving care.

Even if it would make for a better fight.

They didn’t exactly have a wide variety to choose from in terms of combatants. It might’ve served them better to keep the few they did have in fighting fit condition, but that would’ve meant thinking ahead—and being clever about it to boot, instead of indulging in pure bloodlust. Not exactly traits the Klingons were known for.

Vulcans would have drawn it out. Made it last.

The more Jim thought about it, the more his entire captivity on Vulcan seemed like practice.

By comparison, being forced to fight in gladiatorial style while getting cussed out in Klingon was the vacation he kept joking about.

‘You’ll probably be up tomorrow,’ Jim said. He licked the blood from his teeth. ‘Or after dinner. Kinda… Lost track of time there for a while. Who knows—doesn’t seem like there’s much else to do here, but even Klingons have to sleep sometime.’

‘Less often than humans.’

‘ _Most_ humans. Not me.’ Jim tipped his head back against the wall and shut his eyes, listening to the lack of sound Spock made in the cell—a vacuum that was calming, if not outright safe. It wasn’t about letting his guard down; instead, Jim amended his definition of what that guard was, and who was in it. Spock was a part of it, at least while Spock was close by. After being alone in the center of the gaming arena, that kind of company wasn’t half bad, whether it was silently judging him for being worn out or not. ‘Not sleeping, either. Just giving my eyes some rest.’

‘I am aware of your consciousness,’ Spock said.

He had to be. They were connected. In fact, that statement was surprisingly deep, giving Jim a clutch and shiver at the base of his spine. Spock would have known if Jim really did slip off for a while and replenish his depleted resources—since he’d been running on pure adrenaline, fueled by worms, for hours now.

After he’d won, the adrenaline had left him all at once like gravity control powering down in a shuttle. The ground beneath him didn’t feel hard anymore; when Spock knelt beside him, Jim sucked in a thin breath, knowing the touch was coming before it landed.

Spock’s fingertips rested against Jim’s temple. Jim grinned, hoping it wasn’t as crooked as he suspected. Spock didn’t comment, but Jim knew he was taking it all in, docking points for presentation.

‘Can’t wait for more worms,’ Jim said. ‘I’m starving.’

Now that he knew Spock had a soft spot inside of him somewhere for jokes, that was the new plan. Being funny.

Once he woke up, anyway.

He didn’t dream—the period of unplanned unconsciousness was more of a graceful, slumping faint, encouraged by the peace Spock’s fingers brought. When Jim finally opened his eyes, disoriented, to the darkness, he was alone, his skin clammy.

Just like Spock to walk out while Jim was sleeping.

Only this time, Jim thought with a faint twinge of guilt, it wasn’t like Spock was in control of it. Just thinking about Spock not being in control was a stark contrast to the weeks spent in his palace, where every corner of every hallway might as well have been a branch in the veins on his palm, given how well Spock knew them.

Jim blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark, squinting past the stiff, dried blood around his eye. That was a neat trick Spock had played on him, letting Jim rest up while he headed off to steal all the attention and glory in front of the Klingons.

Spock getting his ass kicked wasn’t an option Jim was prepared to consider. More than that, it wasn’t an option he _had_ to consider. He was as sure of that as he wasn’t sure of anything else. Even his certainty that Sam was still alive was more wishful thinking than Jim being honest with himself.

Jim sagged against the wall, flaking the blood off his skin with a cracked nail. Waiting down in the holding cells might’ve been a walk in the park for Spock, but as far as Jim was concerned, he’d rather be fighting than left with nothing to do.

Still, there was one way to pass the time. It was a shot in the dark, but Jim liked those.

Spock was out there, close enough that maybe…

Maybe, if Jim concentrated, he’d be able to widen the channels, spark the link, and know what Spock was up against.

Stranger things had happened.

At first, all Jim could feel was a fuzziness at the back of his brain, nothing more than the dull, hollow echoes of his own aches and pains.

He was probably doing it wrong.

The shadowy silhouette of Spock crouched in a defensive stance could just have been a memory flushed from the back of his brain. Jim had seen him in that posture plenty of times, standing across from him in the training arena.

He didn’t have Spock around to tell him how he was doing.

He had to judge for himself.

The only problem with that was the ever-present, resilient self-doubt gnawing away at Jim’s mind.  As usual, it was most effective at tearing all his efforts apart, like deep down he’d already known he couldn’t do this—and he was only now starting to wrap his head around that stark reality.

Jim frowned, drawing in a breath and trying to push those thoughts aside. The harder he tried to focus, the less effective he felt. So he stopped trying to focus, turning his attention instead to relaxing, letting his thoughts flow like grains of Vulcan sand through his fingers.

He experienced them, then let them pass.

Next, he forced himself to remember Spock’s breathing patterns. That had helped the first time he’d felt their connection, or at least it was the first thing he’d noticed clicking into place. If he could line himself up with Spock even when they were apart, he stood a better chance of tapping into the link.

The cynic Jim had always needed to be told him Spock would likely be breathing harder than what Jim was used to, even harder than Jim could make him, but he’d fought with Spock before. He saw how he moved, what got his blood up—or more appropriately, what didn’t. He kept himself cool even in the heat of battle.

It was pretty weird.  _Definitely_  inhuman. But for once, that would work in Jim’s favor.

He let his focus drift and, in drifting, be pulled to Spock, fighting in the arena above the prison cells. Jim envisioned the moves he would use against a bigger opponent—maybe a Klingon.

They’d fought those massive private guards countless times before leaving. The more Jim thought about it, the more Spock’s plans slotted into place, and the manipulation was so masterful that Jim couldn’t even force himself to get pissed over it anymore. He just had to stand back and admire the work.

But Spock wasn’t the only one who could impress.

His heartbeat pulsed low in Jim’s side; Jim’s eyelids fluttered and he thought he could hear the crunch of sand under a pair of boots that wasn’t his own. His senses sharpened—too sharp—fixing on a flash of movement, a swoop in his gut as he dodged a heavy blow.

Spock wasn’t sweating. But Jim was.

And they were both fine.

Spock was even triumphant, or as triumphant as a guy that impassive ever allowed himself to be. Clean. Methodical. Clinically dominant. He went after his opponent with the same precision and strength as he always did, like he was still fighting in his own backyard and not light-years away from home, with so much more to prove, his life and success and royal name on the line.

Jim was there in his arms; he was there in every swing and each blow; he was there in Spock’s shadow and between his muscles and even in his blood.

Apparently it did get hot sometimes.

Jim was chuckling when he opened his eyes—and if Spock could sense the relief he felt, the flushing current of pleasure, then at least he wasn’t around to see the cause of it. In fact, it was the closest Jim could get to cheering him on from the sidelines. Not that Vulcans appreciated a good rallying cry, or any kind of compliment at all.

As long as it didn’t throw Spock’s concentration to have Jim crowding their connection with positive emotions. Considering how unsuccessful Jim had been at affecting Spock’s concentration in the past, he wasn’t too worried about it now.

He picked at the food that had come in on a flat tray for him while he was asleep, wondering which would be worse: never getting used to the way _gagh_ tasted, or becoming so desperate for sustenance that he ended up enjoying it while it wriggled and writhed inside his mouth.

He’d settled on the latter by the time he heard the sound of footsteps, the creaking of the heavy hatch on its hinges, followed shortly by the sight of Spock, lean and pale in the musty darkness, as he was returned to their cell.

Jim waited for the Klingons to leave before he showed any interest.

‘Hungry?’ he asked. ‘I saved some worms for you. Figured you’d be hungry and I might as well.’

There was a bruise on Spock’s cheekbone and a cut on his jaw, but other than that, Jim couldn’t see anything wrong with him. He could sense something deeper than that—a broken rib, Jim decided, based on heightened instinct.

‘C’mon, Spock. Sit down. Take a load off. Don’t let my worms go to waste,’ Jim said.

Spock kneeled stiffly without pausing to consider the meal. For all his talk about needing proper nutrition, he was falling short on the follow through.

‘So,’ Jim added, ‘how many’d you take down?’

‘Three Klingon warriors,’ Spock replied. ‘I believe I secured the interest, if not the favor, of the audience.’

‘Nah. Even if they don’t like you, they definitely respect you.’ Jim reached out to tug at the front of Spock’s mesh shirt, feeling for blood. Spock stared at Jim’s hand with an intensity like phaser fire but he didn’t make a grab for it, his fingers clasped behind his back. It was thin ice, but Jim continued his inspection, feeling over Spock’s skin for anything more serious. ‘Wish I could’ve been there to see it.’

‘You were there,’ Spock said.

Jim ducked his head and focused on everything below Spock’s face, his eyes, rolling his shirt up over his belly. Aside from a couple of bruises, there was nothing too nasty looking there. Jim’s touch lingered, but even he had to admit it was more about reassurance than anything else.

Spock really had changed him.

Not that he would let Spock know about it that easy.

‘You felt me, huh?’ Jim asked. ‘Figured I’d try to keep things interesting.’

‘They were interesting enough without your interference.’

‘Don’t tell me you like Klingons more than me. They eat worms, Spock. And all that shouting—must be hell on your delicate ears.’

Spock wrinkled his nose. It wasn’t a flinch, but it was the closest Jim had seen him come to an expression in a long time, maybe ever. He couldn’t tell whether it was the memory of the shouting that had struck a nerve or if it had been Jim himself who got under Spock’s skin. Either way, he was tempted to feel proud of himself. He’d gotten to Spock quicker than three Klingons could.

That was a skill he could put on his Starfleet resume. If he ever made it back to Earth in one piece.

‘It was…unpleasant,’ Spock acknowledged.

‘Eat your worms,’ Jim said.

He took his hand off Spock to let him concentrate on the food in front of him. It would help Jim to focus for a second, too. There was something to be said for retreating into the privacy of his own thoughts for a breather—something he’d never known he would need until he met Spock.

‘For someone who purports to be concerned about my intake of nutrients, you are not doing a very effective job of advertising their beneficial qualities,’ Spock said.

‘You say that now,’ Jim said, ‘but _I_ made you a fork.’

He’d been waiting—he didn’t know how long, since without daylight it was tough to keep track of the hours—to whip that out. It had been easy to palm the broken buckle off one of his opponent’s belts. It was a little more difficult to bend it into a clumsy approximation of the necessary shape, but he knew how Spock was about eating things with his hands.

Considering he had to fight with them, it seemed only fair to try and give him a break before round two.

A wrinkle appeared in Spock’s brow as he observed the instrument in Jim’s hand. He didn’t reach to take it, so Jim adjusted his hold, letting the dim lighting hit it.

‘…That is a fork,’ Spock said. He made it sound like a question—or an accusation.

‘Yeah,’ Jim said.

‘Despite possessing none of the necessary qualities of the utensil, including multiple prongs and a visible handle.’

‘There’s a handle.’ Jim pointed. ‘That’s the handle. And those’re—the prongs are right there, see? There’s two.’

Spock tilted his head and squinted, like he thought he could rearrange the small, metal shape in front of his eyes into one that made sense through the powers of his brain alone. If anyone could do it, Spock could. Jim had been joined to that brain for long enough to know just how formidable it was. He half expected the utensil to change shape before his eyes. When it didn’t, he couldn’t help but feel disappointed.

‘Rudimentary,’ Spock said.

‘You’re welcome,’ Jim replied.

‘Were thanks in order?’

‘Usually, when somebody does something for you, even if it’s not in your nature to acknowledge the effort.’ Jim handed the fork over. Their fingers brushed. ‘You know what? Forget it. Just eat your worms.’

Spock did. He used the fork. Even if he didn’t think it qualified, he was still able to do with it what needed to be done. Jim wasn’t smug by any stretch of the imagination, but he was alive and making things, which was proof that there was no way the Alliance could keep him down.

When Spock finished, Jim couldn’t be sure whether the silence would continue into a joint meditation exercise, or if Spock had used up all his daily energy on fighting, or if he secretly enjoyed hearing the moans coming from a distant cell. They got louder, then softer, then soft enough that the quiet made you think you’d been hearing things all along—only to start up again when they were least expected.

It could’ve been Klingon opera. Now there was torture.

Then, Spock moved closer.

Jim looked up just in time to realize they were face to face, not something that happened often. Spock’s mouth was soft and right there, close enough that Jim could have bitten his bottom lip, tugged Spock’s tongue between his teeth. Apparently that wasn’t what Spock had in mind, even if Jim was making a strong case for it by staring alone.

‘It will be easier to explain my thoughts at this time to you through means other than conversation,’ Spock said. ‘It will also be more private, and therefore preferable.’

‘Go ahead,’ Jim replied. ‘My brain is your brain. Apparently.’

His laugh barely had the chance to escape when Spock cupped Jim’s face in his hand, fingers splayed at familiar angles, falling upon familiar points of contact.

It was getting easier to let Spock in without fighting him. That was Jim’s first and second instinct—to buck at every incursion, to refuse entry, to hold his ground—but it had happened already, and whatever Jim had been anticipating, it hadn’t been so bad.

Warmth followed, not the burning kind. There was pain, but it was muted, hushed, swaddled and all but silenced, like it had never mattered and never would. Jim observed it from a distance because Spock held it at a distance, almost the same way he held Jim at a distance. Jim could be a pain, he knew that, but feeling like one of the factors Spock needed to mitigate and control wasn’t exactly nice.

The vagaries began to coalesce. Jim watched, felt, _heard_ them cohere. He didn’t so much listen to words as he saw them; he didn’t hear sounds so much as he could taste them. It left him dizzy, swaying, when the meld ended, but Spock had been right.

It _was_ an easier method of communication. Just like that, Jim knew what Spock was waiting for and what Spock knew: that there would be fighting in pairs the next day, something he’d learned from a meld with a susceptible guard on his return to the holding cells; that if they could impress the audience enough, they would be bought for private use; that all they had to do was not get killed before they were the property of an influential Romulan, and they would have the perfect in to the Alliance prisons.

Sounded simple enough.

Spock steadied Jim with a hand on his shoulder.

‘I’m good,’ Jim said. ‘I mean, how far can I fall when I’m already sitting down, right?’

Instead of an answer, Spock removed his hand. With the other, he pocketed the fork in his leather jacket, which remained in one piece despite an assault from three Klingons.

He’d done well. Better than Jim, to come out of that hell in one piece. It was soothing in an impersonal way, since Jim hadn’t been involved in Spock’s fight—not on the front lines; he’d been below even the sidelines—but he was wrapped up in Spock’s destiny in a way that he was only starting to allow himself to acknowledge.

Jim didn’t believe in destiny in the strictest sense, but ‘fate’ sounded even less agreeable. They were in this together; that was all it meant. Where Spock went, Jim went. They were a kind of unofficial team, although if Spock’s instincts were right, they’d be getting less unofficial soon enough.

‘Pairs fighting.’ Jim said it low enough that not even Spock’s enhanced hearing would be able to pick it up easily. As the champion of the day, Spock would even be able to pick his partner.

Spock nodded once just to show he’d heard. He wasn’t looking at Jim, which was probably part of the act.

Some act. They hadn’t discussed it first, but Spock had decided to go through with it anyway for the good of their shared interests.

They’d practiced fighting together. It had been haunting, heart-racing, unlike anything else. What Jim remembered most about it was nearly getting pounded to death by Vulcan lirpas, but next on the list was the brief, frantic connections between his mind and Spock’s that had flickered in the lowlights of his subconscious.

Now that he knew what that was, he was less liable to get distracted by its appearance. He could use it to his advantage—the way Spock had obviously intended from the beginning.

He’d closed his eyes already. Having eaten and imparted his information, he was done and out for the time being. Jim couldn’t tell if that was because he was genuinely tired or if he was slipping into another one of those healing trances to prepare himself for tomorrow.

He wasn’t hurt that badly. He couldn’t be. Jim would’ve known if he was.

His exploration of Spock’s body hadn’t yielded anything worth worrying over, but Spock was notoriously secretive. He wouldn’t trust Jim with his plans, which meant there was no expecting him to change his attitude over something as intimate as his own body, no matter how intimate they had been with each other.

Once again, Jim was just going to have to live with it.

Lucky one of them was so accommodating and adaptable.

‘Yeah, you rest up.’ Jim didn’t have to lean far to pat Spock’s knee, feeling the sturdy shape of it under his hand. ‘Big day tomorrow. Lots to live up to.’

Like it or not, by performing well, Spock had set a high standard up top. Jim was gonna have to follow his lead—show the Klingons it wasn’t just a fluke.

They were the real deal.

*


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim gets a new permanent accessory.

Spock was ready and waiting when the Klingons arrived in the early morning, on his feet as a sign that he would prove worthy of the next challenge. These were silent cues, ones that required no common language to impart. It was not a matter of pride but a matter of communication. The Klingons would see him and they would know what Spock had chosen for them to learn.

They would not think to look deeper.

Jim, however, was different. The signs he gave were equally committed, yet to an opposite impression. He had found, despite every inhospitality of their surroundings, a corner in which he could bend one knee, resting his elbow atop it, and lounge against the slick, cold stones.

Klingons would not appreciate or respect the casual or the flippant.

Yet there was merit in offering them that which would prove to be a surprise. They would underestimate him as Spock had once underestimated him.

Jim had his methods and Spock had long since determined that interfering with them served no real purpose. Their united front did not bear the appearance of a union and for that reason it was all the more effective.

The Klingons—a three-woman guard, though not the same warriors who had been in attendance the day before—stopped before the cell door. Spock met their eyes, causing one of them to curl her lip and snarl, to which Spock did not blink or flinch.

For his part, Jim cracked an eye open and covered his mouth with his hand in an exaggerated yawn. ‘Thought you guys might be sleeping in,’ he said, in a tone of voice that conveyed what his words could not. ‘Getting your beauty sleep, you know? Taking a day off. I’ve been up for hours just waiting for you to get things started. Beauty sleep didn’t work, by the way. You guys look great as you are. Nice piercings. Agony chic. I like it.’

The Klingon in the front gestured and barked a command. The cell door was opened.

Spock pointed to Jim. ‘I choose my second,’ he said.

That required no translation, either.

They were starting early. Jim’s emotional state was an unsteady buzz, a hum that heated Spock’s blood in his veins. He ignored the grime-streaked walls they passed, the sudden flash of bright sunlight, the silence on the bloody ground.

The audience was slim and scattered, but as the day progressed, more would come to watch. Therefore they would have to pace themselves so that they would be at their finest once Romulans came to watch a Vulcan—so close to them in nature, while so far apart in manifestation of that nature—test his strength on the sands.

Rumors could be counted on to spread and spread quickly.

Jim bounced on the balls of his feet, cracking his neck to the left, then to the right. He huffed a few breaths, loosening himself against the tension of anticipation. Spock achieved the same, though through the stillness and tranquility he had found the night before. At the center of that calm oasis, there was a heart of pure fire, hot as the mountain peaks on Vulcan closest to its sun.

For no more than a second—and even that was too long—Spock allowed his eyes to meet Jim’s. They flashed with purpose; Jim’s mouth twisted in a lazy grin.

‘Excited?’ he asked.

‘Neither excited nor afraid,’ Spock replied. ‘I am ready.’

The fighting began slowly, perhaps too slowly for Jim’s energies, though Spock attempted, from a distance, to regulate them. They dispatched their first paired adversaries all too easily, pausing to drink and to rest while Jim winked at any Klingon guard who passed.

He was not doing himself any favors by behaving provocatively. But there was no precise way for Spock to convey the information without using his words, and what was more to the point, he suspected that it was something Jim already knew.

These tactics were similar to those he had employed on Vulcan. They had not served him there either, yet he was still alive and whole. Perhaps the artifice gave him confidence, and in gaining confidence he achieved the necessary composure to accomplish any tasks that were laid before him.

It was not in Spock’s nature to speculate on that which he could not hope to comprehend. Yet, Jim was capable of inspiring incomprehensible behavior in Spock every now and then.

Spock would observe the trait while taking precautions to not be influenced by it.

Once they had rehydrated and rested, the second round of combat began. The morning had seen the arrival of fresh captives and with them a new wave of competitors. Spock finished the next battle nearly as quickly as it had begun, eliminating the two captive mercenaries so efficiently that the act was as kind as it was brutal.

Jim’s fighting style could not have been called controlled or precise, but their connection provided him with an understanding of what Spock intended, if not why he intended it. Either that or Jim was mirroring Spock’s movements unconsciously.

Whichever hewed closer to the truth, it would serve their purpose: to conserve their energy at the start for the onslaught later on.

Still, Jim’s raw excitement hummed like an oncoming fever when they took their next break, between the third and fourth rounds. He bore a cut on his cheek from a piece of stone that had chipped up from the battered arena floor and scraped him; other than that, any wounds he bore were not visible to Spock’s eye, nor were they deep enough to warrant attention. He was breathing hard, but calmed swiftly, given the chance.

While they rested, Spock observed the trials of another paired team, from the same group alongside which they had been brought. Jim closed his eyes, choosing to center himself rather than seek idle amusement.

‘Just tell me we look better than _that_ when we fight together,’ Jim said.

Perhaps he believed he could achieve both simultaneously.

‘I have not had the opportunity to observe our combat from this vantage,’ Spock informed him.

‘Letting me down easy, huh?’ Jim shrugged, then allowed the motion to become one of leisure, rolling his shoulders back to straighten his neck. ‘Like you did with those guys out there.’

Spock watched a passing Klingon out of the corner of his eye. ‘If you wish for me to comprehend your meaning, you will find it more effective to speak directly to the point.’

‘I  _saw_  you,’ Jim said. ‘You took them out without doing much damage—or making a big show of it. You could’ve at least broken a bone or something, Spock. We’re not making any friends here.’

‘To break a bone requires an excess of force,’ Spock replied. ‘I am conserving mine.’

‘Right, right.’ Jim shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun to scan the fight in progress; Spock was gratified to see him studying the actions and the strengths, not to mention the failures and the weaknesses, of the current combatants. He encouraged even those who knew him to believe his show of thoughtlessness, and for good reason. In this moment, squinting across the proving grounds, his intelligence was as obvious as his shrewdness. It was a keen weapon, sharp as the bladed end of a lirpa. ‘You really expect me to buy that excuse? I’m almost offended.’

‘It was no excuse,’ Spock said.

‘It wasn’t the whole truth, though. A nerve pinch here, a well-timed blow there—you dropped ‘em before they even knew what hit ‘em. All the Romulans I know just _love_ toying with their prey, but aside from a shared heritage and the pointy ears, you guys don’t have too much else in common, do you?’

‘A simplistic assessment,’ Spock replied, ‘though not entirely incorrect.’

‘Well…’ Jim rolled the word on his tongue as though he was savoring the first bite of good food he had eaten in days. At least the water, though it had the bitter tang of minerals, was fresh and cool, and had washed the lingering taste of the _gagh_ out of their mouths, leaving Jim to recall what it was like to relish flavors again. Even if they were only imaginary. ‘I think it’s sexy.’

Spock did not reply, for as he considered an appropriate response, one of the combatants was struck to the ground and Jim hissed, understanding the pain such a fall must have entailed if not expressing outright sympathy.

There was an answering rumble from the audience in their bleachers, but it was not one of interest, merely vague disappointment.

Spock took note of each injury dealt to potential opponents as a point of future exploitation. He also judged the location of the higher, private box seats, the better to be in full view of them while fighting.

‘I’m onto you,’ Jim added. ‘And the thing is, I want you to know it. That’s all.’

‘Our renewed efforts are required,’ Spock said, having seen the signal, and stood to leave the sidelines.

Jim followed, his actions no longer in question. They were shoved back into the arena by rough, gloved Klingon hands as silence fell over the bleachers.

Something smelled of dry leather, of rust and foreign soil. Spock’s nostrils curled at the scent, which was unfamiliar, but its source became clear as their next match was revealed: a towering Gorn, dragged out into the open in chains by no fewer than four Klingons, one of whom carried a phaser rifle. Even though they outnumbered their captive, they displayed difficulty in controlling him.

‘Okay,’ Jim said. ‘That’s a giant lizard. No, Spock, don’t tell me; I know he’s a Gorn.’

Then, he fell silent, uncharacteristically so. Inspiration flickered to life in his chest and in his mind with his actions proving a natural extension of impulse; Jim twisted to press his back against Spock’s, his shoulders to Spock’s shoulders. He took a breath to ground himself and the warmth of his body, his bare skin, coursed between them.

As the pieces of _kal-toh_ slotted into one another to form their exquisite geometries, Jim and Spock fell into place together in a way that Spock had not yet considered possible. Jim’s fingers twitched; Spock’s answered. They cast separate shadows on the sand, but those shadows stretched from the same center.

When Jim breathed next, Spock’s lungs filled; when Spock exhaled, Jim no longer had to.

‘Always wanted to fight a Gorn,’ Jim said. Spock knew that when he spoke, Jim had bared his teeth.

The Klingons released their hold on the chains at a signal from their armed superior. The Gorn required no weapons, lashing the ground and tearing up gravel with the very same ties that bound him.

Jim trembled, but it was not with fear. His muscles trembled with anticipation and excitement: a heady mix that Spock could not separate into distinct components.

For the present, the difference did not matter. The Gorn lunged toward them, moving with a reptile’s abrupt speed to dart after Jim, lashing out at Spock with his tail. Jim dodged to the left and Spock to the right, wind whistling as the scaled length of sinewy muscle swiped over Spock’s head and through the space he’d occupied less than a second ago.

‘Thought this was supposed to be a pairs’ fight,’ Jim called out, before Spock could quiet him.

Though Klingons had a taste for bloodshed, even they would not stack the odds so highly in one party’s favor. Gorns were stronger than humans by a considerable factor. On brute force alone, they could also outmatch a Vulcan.

If Jim sought to express dismay at odds that were unfair, he had to know these numbers represented the only way in which both parties stood a fighting chance.

Spock flexed his empty hands. There were weapons lining the outer edge of the arena—those discarded by the fallen—but he had thus far fought against the temptation to use them in battle. The more enemies they defeated unarmed, the more attention they would draw. This skill would make them desirable to potential buyers.

It was a philosophy that had held firm until this point, although Spock was now beginning to rethink its prudence.

The Gorn had longer reach than either he or Jim could match. In order to land a blow, they would first have to cross within his striking range.

Jim caught Spock’s eye over the green ridge of the Gorn’s shoulder. He let out a shrill whistle, drawing their opponent’s attention. His great, silvery eyes, intelligent but goaded to ferocity, rolled in Jim’s direction, tail sweeping the rocky ground as he swung around in a half-circle.

Getting the Gorn’s attention appeared to be the extent of Jim’s plan—for when the Gorn advanced upon him, he stumbled backward, stance wide and expectant instead of defensive.

‘You’d think they’d move  _slower,_ ’ Jim said. ‘Since they’re so big, and all.’

Spock’s experience with the  _le-matya_  of Vulcan had prepared him for the Gorn’s speed, if not his size. The bite from a Gorn was not venomous and there were ways in which the battle could have been worse—yet there was no way for Spock to convey this to Jim other than through his calm.

‘Uh-uh, that’s right—I’m talking about you.’ Jim’s words drew and kept the Gorn’s attention as he, in turn, attempted to gauge what manner of strategy this was, or if it was a strategy at all. ‘Big guy with the scales and the teeth and the whack-a-mole tail—who else could I be talking about? Yeah, you feel that connection? You feel it?’

That last inquiry had not been intended for the Gorn but for Spock. There was no need for Jim to prompt him, yet the steady litany of what was to the Gorn nothing but chaotic sound continued to serve a vital function.

As Jim behaved erratically and, to some extent, fascinatingly—the Gorn had no experience with an individual so foolish—Spock was afforded a position within the Gorn’s blind spot, which gave him both time and opportunity to break for the weapons.

A pike would do—no hand phasers or phaser rifles were allowed to prisoners fighting in the arena—and anything that could keep the Gorn at tail’s length would be preferable. If no suitable weapon could be found, then a projectile would suffice.

Spock claimed a spear that was not yet broken and lifted it, testing its weight at the same time. Jim’s heartbeat was wild but it indicated Jim’s life still sounding between Spock’s ears, at his temples and at the insides of his wrists, echoing in his abdomen. When Spock turned to face the center of the proving ground, Jim was in the midst of executing a senseless series of feints, drops and rolls, working up a sweat in a way of which only he was capable.

No wonder the pulse beneath Spock’s pulse was racing.

‘Yeah!’ Jim’s jeers did not sound like famed battle cries or war chants. They were pale, small sounds under a vast sky. ‘Catch me if you can, big guy! I’m right here!’

The Gorn was tightening his circle around Jim—captivated in a way for which Spock could not completely blame him. Those unfamiliar with James Tiberius Kirk would find it all too easy to fall under his spell.

Spock hefted the spear in his right hand as the Gorn made his first true leap, diving toward Jim, who barely managed to scramble free of impact.

From across the distance, Jim caught Spock’s eye.

They acted in tandem without thinking. Jim sucked in a breath, switching directions with a skidding of boots, using all his momentum to throw himself toward the Gorn instead of continuing to flee. The latter was sensible, expected; the former offered the element of surprise, and would allow Jim a moment of triumph to push the Gorn into position, as well as use him as a shield.

During all this, Spock had already aimed and loosed the spear, which flew through the air and landed at the Gorn’s back, pinning his tail to the ground.

He bellowed in pain; Spock ignored the ringing in his ears, the echo of that cry rebounding off the amphitheater’s walls. That pain was not his concern.

The instant the Gorn’s powerful, clawed hand caught Jim across the face and sent him sprawling was.

Spock was in motion the moment Jim began to fall; he was behind the Gorn’s back like a shadow as Jim met the ground; and he gripped the cluster of nerves by the side of the Gorn’s neck, applying a reckless amount of pressure to be certain of his defeat as Jim wheezed, winded, and bled.

‘S’just a scratch,’ he croaked. ‘You gotta teach me that nerve pinch sometime.’

The thud of the Gorn as he dropped also echoed over the arched walls of the arena. Silence rose to meet the impact—silence, and Jim’s shock, followed by Jim’s pain.

Jim had experienced worse.

Spock knew this to be true.

Slowly, beginning with one before gaining traction, the sound of hands clapping rose in the wake of that silence. Jim spat blood onto the ground and swayed onto his feet, four parallel gashes raked across his left cheek.

Spock did not move to his aid. In order to follow his plan through to its ideal conclusion, they would have to be seen as strong separately as they were together. It would not be to Jim’s benefit to help him.

He stumbled forward and to the right, but he did not fall back to the ground.

His vision was likely blurred. The blood that dripped across his face would be stinging his eyes. Still, he lifted his hand to wave to the audience. Attendance had swelled over the course of the day, exactly as Spock had predicted. There was scarcely an empty seat in the stands now where they had been less than half empty in the morning. Some of those same seats were still empty—but that was because their occupants were on their feet, in respect for the teamwork that had managed to bring down a Gorn.

Jim laughed, covering a wince as he glanced sideways to ascertain whether Spock, too, was observing him in his moment of glory. The front of his shirt was torn from his right shoulder to the left side of his ribs. Even with his keen appraisal of Jim’s time in battle, Spock could not pinpoint the moment when that had occurred.

He had observed the destruction of many shirts during Jim’s short time on Vulcan. He had not yet come through a battle with one intact.

‘Yeah.’ Jim nodded, stepping sideways to bring himself closer to Spock, so that they stood nearly back-to-back, just as they had at the beginning. ‘Yeah, that’s right. Look at us. Champions of the arena. Spock, when you get a second, think you can get my face back from that Gorn?’

Spock allowed himself to close the remaining distance between then, touching the cool, dry slope of his shoulder to Jim’s where his skin was hottest. He did not lift his hand as Jim had done, instead locking his hands behind his back, which was to be expected from an unfeeling Vulcan. The motion pulled at a stiff muscle in his shoulder of which Spock had previously been unaware.

‘Judging by our performance in the arena, you may soon be provided a new face by the Romulans,’ he replied.

Jim laughed, then groaned. Droplets of blood spilled like sweat from his brow as he shook his head from left to right.

‘All right, so now that you’ve got a sense of humor we’re gonna have to work on your timing.’

‘Was my timing in question during combat?’ Spock asked.

He experienced each slice of pain across Jim’s face as though it was his own skin that had been flayed. The wounds were not as deep as they had at first appeared, but without proper treatment—and they were unlikely to get any from either Klingon or Romulan masters, equally merciless in their own fashions—they would scar.

‘You looking for a compliment, Spock?’ Jim’s voice had softened; their Klingon guards had approached to re-chain the Gorn. They regarded Spock and Jim from all angles with renewed interest, orders from above their rank all that prevented these Klingon warriors from entering glorious battle—their fear of and deference to their superiors, at least for now, eclipsing their esteem for Spock and Jim’s performance. ‘There’s more to this than _just_ combat, you know,’ Jim added.

If there was more to that sentiment to be expressed, it was not allowed to clarify itself. One of their guards had approached, bearing twin collars. These would serve as security while among Romulan aristocracy.

Spock bowed his head and Jim did the same, though he could not stop himself from muttering that this was ‘no way to treat conquering heroes’.

Conquest may have been in their sights, but heroics had never been an element of the plan.

Cool metal closed around Spock’s neck, caught, and tightened. It settled heavily upon his collarbones, heavy enough to bruise with time, but he lifted his head high afterward, the extra weight providing a new challenge to the strength of his posture as he was led off the field.

Success had many names and took countless forms.

In this instance, victory was a prisoner—even if it did not intend to remain so for long.

*


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prince's new face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 to everyone who is keeping me going!

‘Well,’ Jim said, sweeping the room for the fifth time, ‘at least this place has windows. And chairs. You never know how much you’re gonna miss real furniture until you’ve spent the night in a Klingon holding cell—am I right?’

Spock remained, as he had been since defeating the Gorn, impossibly silent. Maybe he was meditating on his ruthlessness; channeling his secret, Vulcan blood-rage into lofty statements and pointed glances. Jim could still feel it boiling below the surface, as threatening as one of Vulcan’s active volcanoes. But it was easy enough to ignore in favor of the blistering pain in his cheek, even as he grew used to it. Every movement changed the dynamics of that pain, which meant Jim had to confront it all over again.

He slipped his forefinger between the skin of his throat and the slick metal of his collar, letting air onto his flesh for a brief, glorious moment of relief. Then, he had to swallow, which he couldn’t do unless he pulled his finger back again.

‘I don’t know about this necklace thing, either,’ he added. ‘Sure, I look good, but it’s starting to chafe. You know about chafing, Spock? Is that something you can feel or does it not even compute for you?’

It would have been one thing to be alone. Only Jim wasn’t alone. Spock was there with him and Jim couldn’t ignore him; the trouble was, he couldn’t pass the time with him, either.

Still, it wasn’t a holding cell below ground. Jim was sure as hell going to make full use of the couch, drink his fill of water, and eat the sour, shriveled fruits and hard nuts provided for them because at least they weren’t alive and moving.

‘When you think they’re gonna show us off, anyway? Some kind of public auction, or you think we’ve already been sold off in private?’ Jim palmed a handful of the nuts, tossing them in the air to catch with his mouth one by one. Sooner or later, Spock was going to have to notice, and favor Jim with some kind of reaction.

Just in case Spock didn’t come around anytime soon, Jim tried to imagine what he would say if they were still talking. Knowing him, he’d start with something straightforward—that they’d been moved to a different location, so there had to be at least some interest in purchasing them for their unbeatable teamwork skills.

Klingons weren’t exactly the type to think ahead. If it had been up to them, they would have been fighting still. Romulans, meanwhile, thought so far ahead that they were rarely in the present.

That sounded like Spock, yeah. Sensible and reasoned, weighing what he knew about the separate cultures against one another. Sometimes Jim couldn’t understand how they had managed to get over their differences for long enough to form an alliance in the first place.

Never mind. That’s what Spock would say, more or less. They didn’t have to understand this to profit from it. Right now, they’d exploited both the esteem Klingons held for warriors and the capital invested in them by the Romulans. There was no way of telling,  _really_  telling, if they had been bought yet, but using logic at least gave Jim a jumping off point.

Someone out there had to be pulling the strings.

_Their_  strings.

As long as Jim didn’t think too hard about that part, he wasn’t liable to lose his temper. Whatever he thought about Spock’s other philosophies, there were some that weren’t the worst he’d ever heard.

When Jim missed catching a second nut, Spock blinked: not a comment, but not indifference, either.

‘Something you wanna say?’

Spock’s gaze passed over his face, which still stung like hell. Jim had given up hoping for a little first aid to go with their fresh accommodations. Klingons weren’t big on the whole dermal-regenerators-for-prisoners movement. They scarred themselves enough that they wouldn’t think twice about scarring others.

‘All right, I’m guessing that’s a no,’ Jim said. ‘Well, for your information, I missed that last one because I’m not used to stretching my mouth on that side. You know, because of my horrible disfiguration.’

Spock shifted his weight, not getting up, but resettling in place.

‘You are not disfigured,’ he said.

‘Sweet of you to think so.’ Jim rolled one of the dried fruits between his finger and thumb, feeling over the deep wrinkles where the water had been sucked out of it. ‘But I know my looks are like, seventy, seventy-five percent of my appeal—and that’s a conservative estimate.’

‘You are interrupting my meditation,’ Spock replied.

‘All that quiet, and you finally speak up just to tell me to _shut_ up.’ Jim sighed, then nibbled a corner of the fruit. Its skin was leathery—the inside tasted sweet and sticky. ‘How very illogical, Spock.’

‘As you showed no signs of being dissuaded by my silence, I determined that another method may have more success in encouraging you to preserve the peace.’

‘I happen to be riding high on adrenaline right now,’ Jim said. ‘It’s something humans do after a crazy, life-threatening fight. In fact, you can probably sense it—what with our bond and all.’ A chunk of fruit nearly stuck in Jim’s throat before he managed to swallow it down. ‘Which is why you’re meditating in the first place, isn’t it? Because of my chaotic influence. You’ve gotta recuperate, since I keep agitating your atoms.’

Spock didn’t answer—nothing out of the ordinary there—but there were times when Jim could translate his silences into standard. Some of them said _you’re crazy, so quit while you’re ahead,_ while others said _you’re onto something, despite your illogical methods_. That was Jim being liberal with the exact meanings, but they got the point across.

Jim bit down on his bottom lip to keep from expanding on his theory. It was bad enough having all that energy under his own skin; he couldn’t imagine what it was like for somebody else, somebody who’d been trained in the fine art of repression and regulation. It must have made Spock itchy as hell—and his own self-control was the one thing standing between him and scratching that itch.

Jim entertained himself with his food instead of with his partner. It figured the nuts would provide more stimulating conversation, although when one of them bounced off his throbbing cheekbone, he flinched.

‘If you closed your eyes,’ Spock said without opening his, ‘you would find more success with your pastime.’

‘It’s not about success,’ Jim replied. ‘It’s about having something to do.’

‘It should always be about success,’ Spock said.

Lessons even when it came to snacks. The worst part was that Jim knew Spock was right.

He closed his eyes, found his center—and tapped into something he hadn’t been expecting, the cool, deep waters of Spock’s inner mind. It wrapped him up like a blanket; it was only when Jim questioned it that it threatened to suck him in to drown.

He was starting to get used to it, the way it was instead of the way he thought it should be, when the connection was broken. Jim tossed the nut between his fingers on reflex, catching it with his teeth as the door to their waiting room opened.

A Romulan stood before them. Chances were he was a senator, judging by the way he was dressed. He wasn’t alone; he had his wife with him, or lover, or daughter. Jim couldn’t be sure of which. He ran through the names of the Romulan houses he knew, the greatest enemies of the Terran Empire, then scrapped the guessing game in favor of rolling with the punches.

They couldn’t be too much worse than the Gorn punches—and anything was better than waiting and waiting.

Spock, of course, rose like this was a house party and he was the one entertaining foreign dignitaries on his own turf. Jim hopped to his feet because of all Spock’s united front talk, falling in next to him and doing his best to make sure his muscles were flexed, since after all, he couldn’t trust Spock to be the right kind of show-off about this kind of thing.

But the Romulans weren’t paying much attention to him; they focused on Spock first, looking him over with thinly-veiled interest, and Spock weathered the scrutiny with the exact same poise as he’d shown Jim.

When they were alone together again, Jim would have to get a thank you out of him for offering such useful practice.

At least the Romulans were quiet, so they had that going for them. Jim knew how Spock felt about his precious silence, but they were barely worth his attention if they weren’t going to at least taunt him a bit. Make comment on his looks. Ask if the Gorn had his tongue. That kind of thing.

Amateurs, really.

Even the Klingons knew how to bait someone. Jim could respect that, if not the other stuff. The part where they had beaten them up and taken them captive was less admirable; the fighting he could take or leave, but it wasn’t much different from what he’d endured on Vulcan.

Despite what had happened to his face, he still preferred the idea of going a few rounds with a Gorn than another one with Spock.

Spock didn’t have claws, but he didn’t pull his punches either.

Jim’s mouth twitched, quirking to one side. It tugged the healing scratches on his face, making him wince. Even that wasn’t enough to shift the Romulans’ attention from Spock.

Jim could understand that, even if it was a  _little_ insulting. He’d made sure to make himself the spectacle in that ring because he knew he couldn’t match up to Spock’s natural strength. As a human, he had to stand out in other ways. If he could make himself memorable by being particularly bloody or totally nuts, then that was how he was going to have to sell himself.

Obviously it had worked.

The Romulan senator’s female companion—wife, Jim decided—finished her appraisal of Spock before her husband. She took his arm, lifting her head to whisper something into the senator’s ear.

Then, her gaze passed to Jim. It took everything he had not to grin, but he figured Spock had put enough work into their little gambit here that he could do his part by not actively messing it up.

‘Hey there.’ Jim winked instead of grinning. ‘You’ve probably already figured it out, but my friend here’s the quiet type. You have any questions, you should probably direct them my way. That’s a personal choice, by the way. The silence. Not a medical condition.’

He could feel Spock’s disapproval; it lanced quick and hot across his skin, like a blast of nonlethal phaser fire.

‘You dare…’ the Romulan senator began.

His wife raised her hand, silencing him with a gesture. That was interesting. Jim was gonna hold onto that for later.

‘We would seek to break you of that boldness,’ she informed Jim. ‘For now, however, it makes you an attractive prospect.’

_An attractive prospect._ As starved as Jim was for approval, that was practically a compliment.

The Romulans were already quicker to praise him than Spock was—not that Jim expected the treatment to last.

First impressions—for better or worse—were his strong suit: showing up and making a splash came more easily to him than breathing, depending on the planet. But given enough time, usually a day or two, Jim could undo all that without even trying. In fact, the longest he’d ever been able to get along with somebody was his arrangement with Spock.

His lengthiest relationship was with a Vulcan who had never kissed him and barely spoke to him on a good day.

The Romulan’s wife narrowed her eyes in Jim’s direction before turning on her heel and leading her husband out. Again, Jim noticed that she was the one in charge and not her husband. She wasn’t so much as pretending for his sake to let him believe he had all the power. ‘Come,’ she commanded, and all three of them obeyed.

For Spock’s sake, if not his own, Jim kept his head down and his mouth shut all the way to the Romulan ship and into separate chambers.

And they’d barely had enough time to enjoy their resort planet.

Jim wasn’t sorry to be seeing the last of Klingon cuisine, that was for sure. He had no illusions that he was still a captive—just a captive with fancier surroundings and shinier chains—but they were moving up in the Alliance hierarchy.

There was even a mirror for Jim to examine the extent of the damage to his face. He leaned in close, grimaced, and pulled open a freshly-scabbed edge of one of the cuts, red blood oozing from it sluggishly. He’d already spilled so much even his veins couldn’t work up enthusiasm for it anymore.

It wasn’t all bad. He might decide to keep the scars for the effect they would have—people thinking they knew the kind of guy he was just by looking at him.

What was it Spock had said? _You are not disfigured_. Coming from him, that was rousing support for the new look.

Jim laughed at himself, checking the narrow cabin for surveillance devices, making sure he had a handle on all the angles before he leaned against the wall, tipping his head back. It was cool against his good cheek when he turned, a welcome change, enough to keep him awake.

He’d been up since the start of their day and fighting nearly non-stop for the rest of it.

_Jim_ , Spock said.

Spock was on the other side of that wall, his palm flattened to it, his fingers spread wide. Each of his fingertips rested in place as distinct points of focus, like bright stars in a constellation. Jim turned his good cheek toward the center, huffing a tired breath into the wall, which trapped it on his skin instead of allowing full release.

_Whoa. Hey. You’re talking in my head and that’s…creepy and weird._ Jim struggled to order his thoughts into sentences the same way he would speak, but without his mouth involved, there was no way to keep unbidden ideas and sparks of inspiration, momentary worries and flashes of the most private impulses from bursting loose and muddying the waters. Thoughts weren’t words; that was the problem. He cleared his throat, then squinted at himself in disgust. What good would clearing his throat even do? Spock would’ve told him to adjust his expectations, and Spock would have been right.

Jim had to hope he hadn’t heard him thinking that.

_So_. It took some doing, especially when Jim didn’t have a smirk or a wink to fall back on. _What can I do for you, Spock?_

_Silent communication will not be without its uses in the days to come._

_Silent communication is all I get from you anyway, Spock._ Jim grinned despite himself. He had to look like he’d finally cracked under the strain, twitching and scowling and squinting and smiling to himself.

If there were hidden surveillance cameras around, all they would pick up on was that their new investment might be out of his gourd. Not exactly the impressive display Spock was expecting him to put on. Jim felt sorry for whoever got stuck with watching their security feeds—because between him and Spock after a long day of fighting, it was bound to be pretty boring.

Or surreal, now that they were leaning on their walls and talking to each other with their brains.

Yeah. Lucky for both of them, the Romulans had seen them fight a Gorn today. If anyone could get away with the old  _one too many blows to the head_ game, it was them right now.

Jim fit his fingers in beneath his collar again, wiping away the sweat that had collected against his skin. It beat being manacled and tossed into a Klingon brig, but it wasn’t comfortable. Spock probably didn’t have to worry about the same issues. Jim didn’t know if Romulans shared that whole not-sweating thing in their common ancestry with Vulcans, but it was just his luck to be the only one perspiring.

_We should practice the method while we are able._ Spock’s voice was calm in Jim’s head, cool waves lapping placidly at his mind.  _You should know by now that the value of frivolous conversation eludes me._

_It’s comforting._ Jim thought it, which meant he said it. He was going to have to learn how to censor himself a little better.

He wasn’t used to keeping his thoughts tidy. Spock must have been trying to prepare him for this all along.

If only he’d said as much—but chances were he thought it would have made things too simple.

Spock’s silence on the other side of the wall spoke volumes. It wasn’t awkward—it was analytical. Meanwhile, it wasn’t as though he was in any position to analyze Spock’s physical actions the way he had before. All he could do was speculate, not analyze.

He was paying for his distraction with the usual lack of perception, and that felt like something Spock would say too—that he was starting to lose track of the borders where their minds touched and where they separated. Soon enough, it wouldn’t feel like such a permanent affliction.

He’d just get used to it. By then, it would be a part of him.

_Do you require comfort?_  Spock asked finally.

_I’m fine,_  Jim said.  _Just explaining the concept. That’s me. Helpful to a fault._

_You speak of your assistance in the arena?_

_That’s what I do. I provide distractions. All kinds. For you or for the Gorn. Whatever._ Somehow—and it didn’t come naturally to Jim—Spock was able to turn images and ideas into complete sentences, dialogue that made sense. Jim knew his internal mess wasn’t as easy to filter through for the pertinent information, not to mention direct responses, but Spock was the pro. If Jim made him work extra for the conversation to continue, turnabout was fair play, all things considered. _So what’s next?_

That much was obvious, easy to phrase. As worn out as Jim was, he was still able to think about moving on.

Sam was out there, even closer than he’d been before. Sam, who had been left on his own to suffer for way too long. Sam, whose name made Winona Kirk’s eyes unfocus to an unseen distance, and when Jim tried to cover her hand with his own, she removed it with a gentle but firm shake of her head—because he was next, Jim figured, and she had to protect herself from that; because she couldn’t afford to let on that she cared about him; because they were never safe, and they had to trust each other without reassurances in order to keep breathing day to day.

_The future is predicated upon a distinct number of variables._ Briefly, Jim was aware of them. By ‘distinct number’ Spock was implying ‘way too much for me to explain to you through a wall’ and Jim was dizzied by the sheer number of contingencies Spock had planned for.

Jim pressed his hand against the wall curiously and felt Spock draw away—he hadn’t been expecting that—before he leaned in again, their hands together on opposite sides of the same wall.

_That make things easier?_

_Indeed, Jim._

_Cool._ It was cool, not that Spock needed to get a big head about it. _So, uh… Where were we?_

_If possible, you must clear your thoughts of that which will only confuse your purpose._

_Family’s not a distraction, Spock. It’s the reason I’m doing all this. Sometimes, you’ve gotta remind yourself._

Silence, pleasant, if unnervingly tranquil, waited for him on the other side of the wall. Jim knew what was beyond that tranquility; he couldn’t trust it at face value. It felt good, but it wasn’t the whole picture, and frankly the whole picture was more interesting.

He realized too late that he had flattened himself against the wall, like he thought he could chase after the truth through physical proximity alone, but he didn’t pull back. The wall was holding him up, and Spock was behind it.

_Why are you doing this, anyway?_ The question just happened; once Jim thought it, it was out there, for Spock to answer or not.

_It is curious that you would ask me for my motives now that the plan is set so far in motion._

_I’ve been asking for a while, haven’t I? You’re just no good at telling me why, so I’ve gotta keep asking._

_The reasons themselves should be clear. You yourself presented the incentives. It will be beneficial to my position to have the Terran Empire in my debt._

Jim snorted. He’d made the argument in the first place; maybe it had been too good a one. He slumped down the wall, pulling his hand away. The connection wasn’t severed, but it faded to a muted hum, pale and distant at the base of his skull. Spock didn’t call after him; it wasn’t his style. Jim was left, as always, to wonder how much of himself he had given away, and if Spock even considered it important.

For two people who shared a bond, there was a hell of a lot about Spock Jim still didn’t know.

*


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Walls are in the way.

Although Jim could not have known it, Spock contemplated the true answer to his request late into the night.

Attention to detail was not an uncommon practice for a Vulcan, and Spock was no exception. He was prone to reflecting, and did so on the relative wisdom of the varied topics Jim had broached over the course of the day. There was scant time afforded for contemplative pause while they were together—so that Spock had cultivated a solitary habit of examining both his own motivations and Jim’s words.

It would not do for him to depend solely on Jim to know himself better. However, in order to sustain and nurture the development of their growing mental bond, Spock would have to work to understand him. The burden was his for having the greater capacity for mental strength alongside the practice Jim had not been given.

It was a wonder to Spock, on some nights, that the Terran Empire came to be such a powerful force when there were other races of clear superiority.

And yet, it had come to be. Therefore, there was something of value to be learned from their triumphs.

Jim’s question remained unanswered.

Why had Spock done this?

The reasons were varied. It was too simple to choose one while discounting the rest from consideration, a fraction of a greater truth. That was how he had chosen to reply to Jim on numerous occasions, but it would not do to simplify motivations for himself in the same manner.

It was true that the treaty between Vulcans and humans formed the basis of the Terran Empire—and it was also true that there were always whispers of dissent; that the benefits were often skewed for toward Earth’s prosperity; that the Vulcans would be more at home with their cousins the Romulans.

Spock’s actions could curry Terran favor—or he could demand Terran respect if he were to reclaim Prince George Samuel from the Romulans to be, as they said on Earth, a Vulcan ‘bargaining chip’.

More realistically, George Samuel’s safe recovery would engender trust and gratitude while allowing humans to understand the necessity of their partnership: that a Vulcan and a Terran prince together had accomplished something they could not have accomplished separately.

It was only together that they could hope to succeed.

The metaphor was sound. Together, Jim and Spock had defeated a Gorn. Their relationship was a test subject that would provide for Spock a broader template for dealing with the Terran Empire.

Spock had done this for the sake of Vulcan advancement.

But the idea would never have arisen in his mind were it not for Jim’s assault on the palace, setting Spock’s plans in motion. Therefore, it was impossible to assign individual credit for its origin. It was in its essence a collaboration, perhaps more than Jim knew.

They had become a true partnership. Perhaps they had been inclined toward that from the very beginning.

Perhaps it was not as surprising as it would at first seem.

Jim’s determination; Spock’s commitment. At the heart of this fusion were two separate hearts that, when occasion called for it, were able to beat as one—though they pumped different blood from different centers.

Spock had seen into Jim’s innermost thoughts ever more clearly. He had sensed Jim’s turmoil and felt his love. There was chaos in humanity’s passions, but it was not without merit, or without admirable qualities.

Why had Spock done this?

The question paled in comparison to another: why had Jim done this?

Brotherhood was not sacred. In Terran and Vulcan histories, brothers turned upon one another, struggling for power, accepting nothing less than triumph. That George Samuel remained a point of light in Jim’s thoughts, as unimpeachable as a geometrical proof and as certain as the most basic laws of gravity, suggested as much about Jim as it did about his brother. In point of fact, Spock had evidence that it spoke more of Jim than it did of George Samuel.

It was a matter of dedication versus devotion, of loyalty versus stubbornness.

These were not mutually exclusive—but there was virtue in Jim’s purpose, a nobility that drove him to act, however imprudent those actions may have been.

To have that, hot and burning ever hotter, held in the palms of Spock’s hands, was a truth without precedent or description.

No meditation could resolve the fascination Spock bore for Jim.

Yes. There was virtue.

Jim had fallen asleep with his back against the wall. When Spock touched the wall from his side, he could feel the warmth of Jim’s shoulders as they rose and fell with even breaths. This was preferable to any other state—while conscious, Jim would have paced the narrow confines of his chamber and tired himself for lack of any other occupation. Rest would allow his body time to heal and his thoughts a chance to calm, as long as Spock reached out to steady and silence the pull of his unsettled, unhappy dreams.

That task was easily managed. Spock checked in once more to find only the replenishing void of sleep, rather than the neural firings that, at random, agitated even the slumbering mind.

Spock did not require the same amount of rest. What he required was a computer terminal that would allow him to cross-reference the blueprints of Romulan territory he had memorized with those that would be stored upon a Romulan warship, such as the one currently transporting them to Romulus.

There was no computer access in their chambers; that was to be expected. They would not be afforded any measure of autonomy, but as there were two of them—and, as Jim himself had professed, one of them happened to excel when it came to causing distractions—securing a moment to gather intelligence was hardly an impossible task.

Spock did not have to speculate to believe that Jim would relish the challenge this provided.

He sat facing the wall—and Jim’s back on the other side of it—resting his hands against his thighs to adjust the rhythm of his breathing. It remained steady and even for two hours and thirty seven minutes, fifteen point three seconds, until Jim awoke and Spock felt his return to consciousness like a hand upon his shoulder, an arm sliding around his waist.

Jim yawned and stretched and winced as he fingered the length of each scar upon his face. He also tested the distance between their minds, though in clumsy bursts of over-concentration, flinging himself at barriers of his own, inadvertent construction. He may just as well have been a sehlat flinging himself at a steel door in hopes of breaking through.

Spock attempted to convey this, calming Jim’s thoughts as he had done countless times. There were ways of judging a distance without attempting to throw oneself bodily across the gap it formed. That was not Jim’s way—yet Spock remained committed in his cause to help him overcome his shortcomings.

He had retained his own mental acuity in order to prevent his thoughts from wandering like strays across Jim’s field of perception. In this way, he was able to control the flow of information. Jim could not yet mimic these abilities, but he could learn to follow by example.

 _Hang on,_ Jim said, although Spock had not begun to speak.  _Someone at the— Whoa._

As he said it, Spock heard the hiss of a mechanized door opening on the far side of the wall. He saw what Jim’s eyes saw as through a veil, blurred features and a pale face.

Then, there was silence, as Jim rose from his place against the wall and broke their shared connection.

Spock’s hearing was sharp but not so sharp as to perceive anything more. The walls of their rooms were thick, dense enough to insulate those within from the radiation of space. He waited, but there was no arrival at his own door to mirror what Jim had encountered.

Curiosity would not serve Spock and neither would speculation. Further patience was required.

Jim was in no danger here. He had been purchased for his physical attributes and thus his value lay in his health. There was no need for concern, so Spock did not allow it to enter his equations.

Instead, he continued to breathe deeply, awaiting such an opportunity when knowledge would take the place of inquiry.

 _Jim,_ Spock attempted.

There was no reply.

While Spock was meditating, his morning meal was served. Unlike the Klingons, the Romulans consumed both root vegetables and meat. There was an assortment of both on Spock’s plate, allowing him to pick his way around the very proteins he had counseled Jim to eat and still be satisfied with his intake of nutrition.

During their time being transported on the ship, Spock could afford his digestive system what it required to recuperate from the  _gagh_.

He ate with his back to the wall, anticipating Jim’s eventual return. Their trust in one another, while never verbally established, amounted to this.

Spock waited because he knew that Jim would come back.

Once again, hours passed—then another two and three minutes. Spock added each to his tally. In between the third and fourth minute, warmth crested his back like a hand on his shoulder, feeling along the shapes of his vertebrae as heat traced his spine.

Jim’s hand was on the wall, finding the place where they connected.

 _Hey,_ he said.

 _Jim,_ Spock acknowledged.

 _The craziest damn thing just happened to me._ There was no rush of endorphins that suggested Jim had begun to eat, which meant he had eaten elsewhere. He was not hungry; he was curious, thoughtful, excited for reasons that had nothing to do with a satisfying meal.

Spock probed deeper.

The swell of naked information, housed in the intricacies of Jim’s human memory, confirmed Spock’s initial assessment. He had taken his meal with the Romulan woman who had purchased their services; she had shown interest in him; and he had managed, despite himself, to remain coy, not so much as to incur her wrath, but not so little as to suggest he would be a boring conquest. They had eaten while he told her stories of his adventures, some of them lies and some of them variations on specific truths, while he had shown her his scars. She had not offered a regenerator for his cheek and he had not asked her for one.

But that was not all.

There had been a moment during which she had been distracted with a private message, during which time Jim had been able to determine their itinerary.

 _Jesus_. Jim’s voice was clear even if his thoughts were not—it was half as he heard himself, and half as Spock heard him, a confluence of impressions that met somewhere in an unfamiliar middle. _I can feel you inside my head, Spock. Like you’ve got your fingers in me._

Heat. Humor. Amusement, wry but energetic. Suggestion, which was not unexpected from him.

 _Wouldn’t mind having your fingers in me_ , Jim’s thoughts explained.

 _We will arrive on Romulus in less than seven hours_ , Spock replied.

_You know, she was a lot more fun company-wise than you are. Bet she would’ve appreciated the fingers-in-me line._

_Your brother is being held on Romulus._

_Yeah, and it’s not gonna be easy to find him._

There it was—the grounding element that brought Jim’s mind to a focus, flirtations shed like a _le-matya’s_ scales. His brother. A twist of new heat, no humor, the keen slice of eagerness as quick to cut as a hidden blade. Spock waited for that heat to pass.

_No, it will not. But you are not desirous of that which is easy._

He allowed Jim to contemplate this statement, a tangle of contemplation he came to sweep aside. _She’s important, you know. Powerful. You can tell just by looking at her—she was born into it._

_Indeed. I had suspected as much the moment we met._

_Didn’t think to share that, since we’ve been sharing so much?_

_I had assumed that you would come to the same conclusion—which you have._

_Between you and me, I’d take another ten rounds with a Gorn any day._

That was deflection. Had they been together, Jim would have offered false, hollow laughter, and Spock would have seen through it, and it would have placed distance between them.

Jim rested his hand on the wall. He was warmth; his skin refused to cool no matter what it came up against. There was a fever in him—purely metaphoric, but no less powerful for it. He spread his fingers wide, far more seductive than his suggestions had been.

_You still there? It’s not like I’m actually suggesting we fight more Gorns. Two’s the most I’d be down for, considering I’ve only got two sides of my face for shredding and I’ve already cashed in on one of them. Although, hey—at least I’m not disfigured._

_We will need access to a computer terminal once we are no longer on this ship._

_So I’m gonna do the distracting again, is that it?_

Spock let his fingertips fall over the very spot where the center of Jim’s palm sat.

It was not a clear reply, and yet his time with Jim had taught him there were moments when even he required a subtler path. He felt Jim’s hand twitch as he became aware of Spock’s touch through the wall. Though he could not compare to the presence of Jim’s body heat—Spock did not warm the wall between them—he knew that Jim was conscious of his proximity.

Spock could appreciate the symmetry of the dynamic they had come to share.

 _I’m good at that,_  Jim continued after a spell of silence, upon realizing that Spock’s reply was not a verbal one.  _Distractions. I mean, you’ve always said so, right? I’m_ very _distracting._

 _In the past, this has not been complimentary of your skills,_ Spock informed him.

 _Lucky for both of us, the Romulan senator’s wife isn’t much for meditation,_ Jim said.  _She’s looking for a diversion._

 _You are very diverting,_ Spock acknowledged.

They continued to sit like that, not side-by-side and not truly back to back. But Spock was aware of Jim’s shoulders as they rose and fell, the quiet drag of his breath as it whistled through his open lips. When his thoughts turned to Sam, Spock gently eased their direction onto a less tumultuous path. And thus, in that fashion, Jim passed into a deep sleep.

Spock monitored his vital signs for two hours, until even their heartbeats aligned in a rhythm that was too quick for a Vulcan’s liking.

Yet Spock was half human. It would not harm him to allow his body to succumb to a change of pace—so long as it was not a continued practice and he did not allow it to occur too frequently.

For the sixth, seventh and eighth hours of Spock’s captivity, he meditated. Vulcans did not sleep as humans did, and in spite of Spock’s peculiar genetics, he had always adhered to this practice with no physical detriment on his part. When they arrived on Romulus, he would require the full force of his wits and his energies at full strength. There would be, as always, the potential for Jim’s emotions to overwhelm him at the possibility of coming near to George Samuel’s holding place at last. Therefore, Spock would have to be sufficiently vigilant for both of them.

When he opened his eyes, there were only two hours left until their projected arrival on Romulus. If Jim’s information was correct—and Spock had no reason to believe it would not be—they would soon be transported to their new homes: holding cells for slaves and purchased combatants, a training area that would school them in absolute loyalty.

They would not be held within the same compound as Jim’s brother, but access to the inner workings of a Romulan prison was the first step to reaching it.

Jim woke on the other side of the wall soon after Spock had begun to consider the structure of their plan and weigh its every balance. Jim did not rise or push away; he did not study himself in the mirror or find a way to make his position more comfortable. Instead, he stretched his legs in front of him, his heels digging into the floor, rolling his shoulders and indulging in a full-bodied yawn that began in the pit of his belly and struggled free through his broad chest.

Spock came closer to the wall, drawn there by Jim’s magnetism.

Close observation was a vital element to their dealings; Spock had committed himself to the study of Jim in order to know all that could be known about him. Yet honesty had always been a distinct, if merciless, path for any Vulcan who sought the incomparable power of enlightenment.

As Spock was honest with himself, he would be the first to admit that his interest in Jim went beyond the clinical, especially in this moment.

Again, Jim rolled his shoulders, muscles taut before they relaxed, only to tighten again. He let one knee fall outward so that his legs were parted—hardly a natural position—while toying with his hands, the fingers of one pushing the others into a V that matched the splay of his thighs.

He was playing with the imagery of the _ta’al_.

He was aware of Spock’s awareness—but then, Spock had not attempted to hide his attention.

Jim’s familiar chuckle: hot breath and a matching sigh. Spock had felt it numerous times on his face, so often that he could summon that feeling now. It did little to release Jim’s tension, his curiosity, or the flush and swell of his inspiration, spreading a new, ruddy heat over his skin. Jim dropped his hands to his chest, abandoning the practice of the _ta’al_ as emphasis on his skill with distractions. To follow impulse was, for a Vulcan, undesirable, a weakness buried deep in their pasts. They controlled those impulses and strengthened them, but Jim acted as he pleased and pleasure became his actions.

His fingers tripped low over a twitching abdominal muscle, circled his navel, then dropped between his thighs to squeeze his erection.

At the touch of his own warm hands, he gasped.

They communicated even now, but not in distinct, structured sentences, a dialogue that had no order. Jim’s rushed thoughts flooded across the half-open channel with satisfaction that was defined by its sharp, biting eagerness for more and more; there was seemingly an endless capacity for desire within the human belly and heart. His breaths began to shudder, the back of his head pushed into the wall, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip to silence a shuddering groan.

This was a conscious effort on his part to maintain silence for the sake of their mission. He twisted his neck, his unmarked cheek pressed to cool metal, which would not remain cool for long. When he panted, the skittering breath Spock remembered so well fogged that metal.

Jim’s lashes fluttered. Shadows glanced over light on the backs of his eyelids. He mouthed Spock’s name, felt against the wall, and touched himself again, through the leather of his pants. That, too, was a symbol of the barrier between them, and the friction it brought, the frustration, served only to heighten the potential for gratification.

‘Spock,’ Jim grunted.

Spock considered denying him release; Jim would be aware that such control was possible. He arched his hips at the thought and pleaded—‘C’mon, Spock. Please?’

It was not necessarily genuine. He was the type to leap without looking; therefore, his request for permission was a fathomless gesture, as though power could be so easily toyed with. Perhaps it could. The possibilities Jim brought, and his unpredictability, heated Spock’s belly.

Still, his hand made no further progress—committed, at least, to the pretense of waiting for Spock’s authorization.

Spock could not say that he had not given it because he knew that Jim would carry on without his involvement. However, he had known this to be true, and it had been at least a contributing factor in his silence. His intuition when it came to the basics of human nature was lacking, but even Spock was able to understand that this was Jim’s show.

In battle he had already revealed himself to be a skilled performer.

This arena was smaller, more private. Spock was the lone member of Jim’s audience and he was closer than the most privileged of seats.

Jim squeezed himself between his legs only to let go, running his fingers over the supple leather of his trousers, hooking his thumb under the waistband where it met his skin. Spock would never grow entirely accustomed to the faint sheen of sweat that made his fingers sticky where they drew down his zipper. The difference caught Spock’s interest and his attention, while the faint discomfort that Jim’s arousal found while straining against tight leather echoed between Spock’s legs. It made an attractive counterpoint to the slick, simple pleasure that came when Jim’s fingers closed around the base of his naked erection.

He groaned, low in his throat. The sound did not resemble a name and Spock did not seek to understand it. Instead, he rested his temple against the wall, listening to the flood of emotions and sensations as they filtered through Jim’s head, jolting past like space debris through a rapid current. There was heat and pleasure tightening over his skin. Jim splayed both his knees wide, shimmying his hips from left to right in order to work his trousers down with one hand, tugging the shorts he wore beneath them off as well.

He looked at himself in order for Spock to see him.

His thighs were pale, skin a deep pink under his fingers, where he held his erection in one hand. Jim removed it to lick his palm, using the added wetness to relieve some of the natural friction as he stroked the delicate skin. He pulled himself up against his stomach, creating new pressure where he had sought only to release himself.

In Spock’s eyes, his efforts were contradictory. Still, he remained an observer. He would not interrupt Jim’s concentration at this juncture—as this was a test of his patience as well as Jim’s.

Jim ran his fingers up and over the sensitive head of his cock, where nerve endings where clustered thick. A shudder passed through Spock’s skin at the sensation.

Their anatomies were different; there was a slit at the head that Jim preferred to exploit rather than ignore, the vulnerability of the thin skin an attractive, self-serving weakness. His thumb moved against it in circles; his palm trapped the shaft to the prickling hair on his belly. Spock saw Jim through Jim’s eyes, through each lazy blink, through the burn and sting when he forgot to blink at all.

Spock did not blink, not even once.

And still, Jim waited, his strokes slowing, his grip tightening. He clenched his jaw, dug his heels in, shoulder blades aching where they ground against the wall.

‘ _C’mon_ , Spock,’ he repeated.

The please was implied. Jim held it alongside his erection in the very palm of his supplicant hand.

In response, Spock suggested that he did not own Jim. He suggested that theirs was a partnership, and that the choice was now—however literally—in Jim’s hands.

Jim recognized the joke Spock had made and appreciated it in a way only he was able to. He laughed, hot-headed and breathless, then spilled onto his own belly, his hands sticky, his chest rising and falling rapidly as equilibrium returned to his taxed body.

He also wondered, and was unable to keep himself from silencing his wonder, at what Spock had felt—and in what ways Spock’s body differed below the belt—and whether Spock’s skin had flushed a different color at the moment of Jim’s release, and whether his blood was hot—and especially whether or not he had meant that suggestion.

 _Partnership_ was a word that echoed in Jim’s heartbeat as it disconnected from Spock’s, as both muscles began to beat separately and out of time.

The rhythm had been broken.

Briefly, Spock bowed his head.

 _See?_ Jim had managed to rally more quickly than Spock would have anticipated, if Spock allowed himself to anticipate where Jim was concerned. _Distractions. I just burned, what, half an hour off the rest of our trip? S’way better than meditating, right, Spock?_

His lips moved around the words as he thought them.

Spock pressed his palm to the wall.

 _Clean yourself and be ready_ , he replied.

He placed more distance between them after that, though the hours passed no more quickly for it.

*


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim ties Spock up.

Jim didn’t have to wonder for long if Spock would look him in the eye the next time they actually saw each other, since they landed soon after Jim had finished cleaning himself up. The collar was cinched tight around his neck and it stung him with a weak electric shock to signal he should rise. The lock on his door clicked from red to green before it opened, Spock was already outside, and this time it was Romulan guards leading them off in an orderly fashion, with less shouting—but it would be one hell of a mistake to assume that meant they were any less dangerous.

Somehow, with more self-control than Jim had ever exhibited, he didn’t toss a glance Spock’s way or look over his shoulder. It was enough for the time being to know that Spock was there, at his back.

Okay, maybe ‘enough’ was a stretch. It had never been enough and Jim didn’t know what would be. Without experience, how was he supposed to tell what ‘enough’ felt like?

Not his problem.

Not right now.

He was on Romulus, way past the Hostile Zone, one of too many prisoners to count. He had to start thinking less about what was going on between him and Spock and more about how they were going to live to tell this story to disbelieving allies someday. And if they _didn’t,_ there might not be any allies to tell it to, either.

That was a lot of responsibility. Jim hadn’t worked out yet whether his shoulders could carry that kind of weight.

Still, there was no time for Jim to worry about that now. He kept his eyes off Spock as they were shepherded off the ship, into a noisy, crowded ship’s hangar.

‘Keep moving,’ the Romulan guard behind Jim said. What he wasn’t saying was: _don’t even think about making a break for it._

But Jim wasn’t looking around for the nearest exit. For once, he was just appreciating the view, taking in the sights. Foreign ships loading and unloading cargo; grim-faced captains standing sentinel next to sleek little Warbirds with their striated wings, metal tinged a deep shade of green. From a distance, Jim couldn’t pick out what differentiated one model from the next—he couldn’t tell which ones would have that brand new and deadly cloaking technology.

The Terran Empire would kill to have something like that for themselves.

Jim couldn’t risk Sam’s safety distracting himself with dual purposes. Sam came first, but it wasn’t out of the question to escape in a Warbird second.

Escorted by the senator’s guards, they passed out of the hangar and into strong Romulan sunlight for the first time.

Jim squinted, shielding his eyes from the bright, blue sky. There was something to be said for having a single moon and sun, something he hadn’t enjoyed since the last time he was on Earth. He sucked in an experimental lungful of air just to test that out too. The atmosphere was a little thin, but nothing compared to the dry heat of Vulcan.

 _Not bad,_ Jim tried, resisting the urge to lean sideways and bump Spock’s shoulder with his own.

The air was cool on his skin; it made the spot where he was hot under the collar—literally—stand out all the more. He was gonna have to talk to someone about that if it kept making him sweat. Moisture and electricity were a dangerous combination.

 _Do you think we’re gonna have mirrors in the next place, Spock?_ Jim asked. They weren’t touching, but they hadn’t been through the wall, either. Maybe proximity didn’t matter as much anymore. Things were getting deep between them.  _Because I think I could get this collar off with the right angle—and if you loaned me your fork._

Jim relinquished, too tired to fight the good fight, and glanced sideways at Spock without moving his head.

_You’ve still got it, right?_

_We will discuss our assets in private._ Spock’s gaze was fixed on nothing in particular; Jim assumed it was to keep from looking like he was up to something, studying any one detail with too much interest. _As Vulcans and Romulans share a common ancestry, they are more telepathically inclined than Klingons._

 _Yeah, but it’s not like they can pick up on what we’re broadcasting. What we’ve got is a private channel, right?_ Jim didn’t have a manual. Spock was the one who knew the finer details. And of course, he wasn’t showing all his cards, no matter how much he’d insisted on their partnership being predicated on an equal basis. Easy for him to say when Jim had his hand down his pants, the waistband around his thighs. _Can they?_

_They would not be able to achieve that, no. However, they may be capable of recognizing the concentration on your face as indicative that you are in communication with me as my bond-mate._

_Bond-mate,_ Jim repeated.

But they were on the move again, Spock ushered out in front, Jim left to feel like he was tagging along behind.

 _You’d better still have the fork I gave you,_ Jim added, a parting shot, before he switched gears. Just because Spock would be doing the same—concentrating on the number of steps they took from docking bay to ground transportation, how long ground transportation took to shuttle them to their destination, what kind of military presence there was nearby—didn’t mean Jim shouldn’t have some idea of the lay of the land.

All told, they were on the shuttle for about fifteen minutes; Spock would have the exact count, while Jim kept his eye on the security patrols. They were tight; Jim wouldn’t have expected anything less. Romulans were a lot like Vulcans that way: they had all their bases covered.

They were a lot less like Klingons when it came to putting up their live resources, too.

Jim and Spock weren’t the only off-worlders disembarking in the barracks, collars checked, tracking chips implanted, basic uniforms handed out like clockwork. When Jim got to the head of the line, the Romulan in charge double-checked his PADD, then gestured for him to step aside. Spock got the same act and Jim grinned, showing his teeth, for all the others who weren’t given the special treatment.

They had already been marked as different; there was no downplaying that. Jim rolled with it by making it as obvious as possible that nobody wanted to mess with him for all kinds of reasons, not the least of which being somebody up top thought he was worth extra consideration.

There was no doubt as to who thought that—their benefactor, who had introduced herself to Jim as N’Mara. Talking to her made it obvious why Spock was so obsessed with chess; Jim had kept every one of Spock’s moves in mind to avoid giving anything away.

But as fun as she’d been, and as hard to read, she was no Spock.

Although she did have one hell of a place to her name, the full effect of which Jim could see for himself as they left the main compound behind, riding a turbolift so high it was like somebody was trying to impress them by taking them up to the stars.

 _You must have made an impression_ , Spock thought.

Jim couldn’t be sure—it wasn’t the first time he’d initiated telepathic communication, but it was the first time in a while since it hadn’t been Jim looking to chat, mind to mind.

_Jealous, Spock?_

_Should we make too much of an impression, it will complicate our ability to move in the shadows._

_Definitely jealous,_ Jim replied, although nothing could have been weirder, or farther from the truth.

The turbolift opened onto a room with sealed windows—not the most remarkable thing about the room, but it was what Jim noticed first. They were high enough that only a crazy person would attempt an escape that way, but the fact remained: they were prisoners. Slaves. No matter how beautiful the trappings they were kept in, there were still the guys with collars and the guys without.

One of the latter gave Jim a pointed shove, getting him off the turbolift and into the well-lit foyer of their new room.

After all, it seemed crazy to call it a holding cell. In spite of the faint glimmer of a force field around the wide windows, there wasn’t much difference between this place and Jim’s quarters at home.

Well, aside from the taste in decorations.

Romulans had a real affinity for this color Jim, in the privacy of his own head, was going to call baby-shit green. It was like mud, but with an undeniably organic warmth to the shade that made it seem like it had come out of a person. The curtains, the bedspreads, the upholstery—they were all the same shade of muted forest decay, except for the sofa, which was the color of plastic explosives. The washed-out gray made Jim flash back to the days of the grizzled security chief showing Sam and Jim which wires to tug in case an emergency took out their bodyguards.

Mom  _hated_ that guy. But they’d learned a lot, all the same.

‘A matter of note, before you are left to your own devices.’ Their guard let the turbolift doors swoosh shut behind him, putting his phaser away but keeping his hand on his belt. He hadn’t introduced himself—Jim figured the relationship wasn’t gonna get personal. ‘You are to be kept here at the instruction of our mistress, Lady N’Mara. Your restraints are synced to your biological signature and designed to monitor your whereabouts; if removed, they will trigger a secondary security system, designed to incapacitate within seconds.’

He didn’t elaborate. It sounded fatal, but Jim didn’t try checking in with Spock, remembering what he’d said about Vulcan telepathy and Romulan heritage. He glanced sideways instead, though he didn’t know what he was expecting to see, other than more of the same, comforting blankness. Like nothing phased him.

Jim knew better—and even  _he_ was starting to fall for the act.

‘The favor of your continued existence here may easily be rescinded at any time,’ the guard continued. Something about that sounded final.

 _Some favor,_ Jim thought. It wasn’t directed at anyone in particular, not something he had intended Spock to overhear, just general, internal commentary. That was usually the only way Jim had of getting through one of these situations without snorting in disbelief, or asking a captor if they were serious with a melodramatic line like that. But Spock must have suspected Jim was going say something that would have the guard pegging him as a troublemaker—which would have been a fair assessment—because he spoke up for the first time in what seemed like ages.

‘It is understood,’ Spock said.

The Romulan guard gave him a once-over that lingered and burned, enough so that Jim stepped between them and flashed one of his biggest grins. He had his reasons, and they weren’t all about making sure he was the only one who got to look at Spock that intensely.

‘Vulcans, am I right?’ Jim asked. He clapped the guard on the shoulder, enough to make him stiffen and question Jim’s sanity—but it was also enough to distract him from Jim’s free hand, which lifted the guard’s PADD off him, too smoothly to be felt.

Jim tucked it behind his back, never once letting his grin falter.

The guard, more power to him, didn’t draw his weapon on Jim, although Jim wouldn’t have been surprised if that was the result. He certainly deserved it.

‘Your lives,’ the guard replied simply and finally, ‘are not in your hands.’

Jim could feel the pinch of the collar on his jugular as the guy left.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘ _He_ was friendly, wasn’t he? Give me a day and he’ll be my number one fan.’

It must have been too pointless a comment to encourage Spock to respond.

‘But I’ll tell you what _is_ in my hands,’ Jim added, lifting the PADD high. ‘And for once, I’m not talking about something below the belt. Although that could be in my hands again sometime. For the record.’

‘That was a rash move,’ Spock said.

‘Yeah, and it paid off.’ Jim started for the gray couch, which was only slightly more forgiving than Vulcan furniture with the same purpose, bringing up the screen on the PADD. Spock made him wait—made Jim’s whole being practically beg for it, something that was starting to be a thing between them—then stepped forward, seating himself beside Jim with his stiff limbs and his perfect posture and his long fingers.

Jim rested the PADD on his thighs; if Spock had to work a little extra, lean a little closer, to get a better view, then first of all, good, and second of all, Jim wanted it. The closeness. Like in the arena, fighting the Gorn, only he suspected nothing would ever be like that again.

The PADD was programmed in Romulan and Standard simultaneously, making it a hell of a lot easier for Jim to figure out the guard’s password. When Spock reached forward to correct one of Jim’s best hacking codes, Jim twisted his hand so that their palms touched, albeit too briefly.

‘C’mon, admit it,’ Jim said, but he couldn’t figure out exactly what it was he wanted Spock to admit. And Spock was gonna make him work for it, just like Jim had made Spock work for the PADD. It was the kind of code-breaking that didn’t come with a single moment of triumphant enlightenment, followed by full access to the entire system. ‘I mean—’ Jim pulled up a private database of Alliance prisoners, then started in on finding a way to shadow the information he wanted to access so nobody would catch him snooping around. ‘—you’re impressed.’

‘I would not praise recklessness,’ Spock replied.

‘You don’t praise anything, Spock.’

‘Praise should not influence action.’

‘That’s convenient,’ Jim said. ‘If that’s gonna be your excuse for never saying anything nice to me, then I’m not buying it.’

Fortunately, in that moment, Spock’s attitude wasn’t the most important thing on his mind. He had lists to pore over; some of the names suffered in the Romulan-to-Standard translation program and they didn’t seem to be sorted into any kind of hierarchy, probably in case of people like Jim intercepting their information.

Instead of a nice, easy pyramid of priorities, one list of captives was housed next to another and then another, like separate combs in a greater hive. According to what he was seeing, at least half the buildings Jim had seen on the way in, arranged around the city in concentric ring formations, held a prisoner compound of some kind.

It was impossible to skip ahead and get straight to Sam. He was gonna have to read through everything manually.

‘Anyone ever tell you Romulans like making things hard for themselves?’

Spock wasn’t watching over his shoulder, but he was lingering nearby. That was as close to Vulcan interest as Jim had seen him exhibit—sticking close without outright admitting he was paying attention.

‘It is my assumption that Romulans seek to make things difficult for other species,’ Spock said. His voice was dry—Jim couldn’t tell whether he was joking or being his usual informative self. ‘Especially those who have broken into their security systems.’

Jim’s eyes glazed over as he scanned list after list of names assigned to numbers.

‘You’d think they’d at least put a star next to the important ones so they know who to feed regularly,’ he said.

‘Such intelligence would not be kept as a matter of general record,’ Spock said, ‘in the event of an incursion, such as the one we have undertaken.’

‘Maybe they’d be a more trusting people if they didn’t live waist-deep in off-world slaves,’ Jim suggested.

‘The Alliance has many resources, but they are rapidly being depleted,’ Spock replied. ‘Currently the Romulan Empire is dependent on slave labor in order to keep its troops and espionage teams funded.’

‘Listen to you. I’m getting a lesson in Alliance economics.’

Actually, Jim was gonna have to return to that topic sometime.

He tilted the PADD on its axis, pulling up an interactive map of one of the compounds closest to the Romulan Senate houses. It had strict guard rotations, and only a few prisoners—all of them numbered alone. No names.

It could take Jim forever to scan through the lists; he was gonna have to be smart about it.

Cleverness over diligence was kind of Jim’s thing. He wasn’t into hard work where a little quick thinking could save him.

‘Seems to me like this is the one we want. Right here.’ Jim jabbed the area with his thumb, impact keeping things real. The less he thought about the living conditions in those places and what Sam was going through, the better. ‘But—go figure—no names. Just numbers. You think if we get close enough, you could… I don’t know, pick up on the right wavelength? Yeah, I know, I _know_ : Vulcan telepathy doesn’t work that way. Still, I could give you memories. That kind of stuff.’

‘We cannot rely upon having more than a single opportunity,’ Spock said. ‘As such, our plan should not rely upon contingencies, possibilities that have been untested.’

‘Look, I want this to be as foolproof as you do—more, maybe, considering the stakes here.’ Jim paused to consider how Spock would think about the situation, the drawbacks he would arrange from least to most obvious. ‘Except the longer we stay here, the more we have to worry about being exposed. Somebody sees the wrong picture or the wrong visitor shows up and our cover’s blown. Eventually we’re gonna have to scrap airtight for _action_.’

Spock gave Jim a look that said he’d been expecting Jim to use that kind of crazy talk all along and he was about as unimpressed as ever. Jim sighed, fingers itchy, leg bouncing beneath the PADD.

They were so damn close—not to mention this might be their only chance to talk alone and come up with an idea that would get them into the prisons and get Sam out.

And the thing was, Spock didn’t have the answers.

Jim could sense that. No, he could feel it, because feeling and sensing were on two different levels. It tickled the edges of his brain, if that was even possible—although with Spock, the definition of ‘impossible’ had started to shrink in scope. Spock had gotten them this far; his plans had been meticulous, his strategies brilliant. But it wasn’t his family on the line and right now, the clinical wasn’t going get them where they needed to go.

It wasn’t going to get them off this planet.

It wasn’t going to secure their success. Hell, screw success—Jim wanted triumph.

Seconds passed as he listened to the rhythm of Spock’s breath and his slower heartbeat, all of it so carefully regulated. Almost like he was waiting for something.

Almost like he was waiting for Jim to bring that something to the table.

Jim’s eyes found Spock’s face, pale, expression focused. There were no signs of injury there, no scars he’d gained during his time with Jim. It was like none of this had touched him, like Jim hadn’t even touched him. He wanted to think there was more to it than met the eye, but he could never be sure.

‘Okay, Spock,’ Jim said. ‘I’ve got an idea. But you have to be willing to roll with me.’

‘Roll with you,’ Spock repeated.

‘Trust me,’ Jim said.

He waited.

Then, when he was about to give up, Spock nodded. ‘That is not outside the realm of feasibility.’

Jim scoffed, stuffing the PADD under one of the cushions, wiping his sweaty hands off on his thighs. ‘I’m gonna turn you in,’ he said. Spock’s eyebrow rose. ‘No, no—it’s brilliant. It’s gotta be this way. I tie you up right here, right now, and wait for N’Mara to come around. Then I tell her you’re, I don’t know, some Vulcan spy or assassin or noble or something, that I found out when you hired me on, that I’m giving her a gift to show—uh—how much I respect her, whatever it is that Romulans get a kick out of. She trusts me, _you_ get thrown in the high-security lockup _with_ Sam, and then I get a little more freedom to come and bust the two of you out.’

For once, Jim wanted to think Spock was speechless in a good way.

‘It’ll work, Spock,’ Jim added. ‘I’ll make it work.’

He didn’t appreciate feeling like he was begging, but if Spock needed convincing, then Jim could find it in himself to dig deep. He  _had_ to. He owed that much to Sam. They’d come this far and he wasn’t about to trip up at the end.

Spock’s hands were folded on his knees, as still as the rest of him.

If he was taking a second to process, he could have just said so. This was just driving Jim nuts.

‘Don’t make me regret telling you my plan ahead of time,’ Jim added. ‘I don’t like keeping my partners in the dark. That’s your thing, Spock, not mine.’

Spock frowned, mouth pulling down at the corner. ‘My intent, as I have explained, was never to exclude you.’

Jim felt a bright burst of satisfaction that could only come from knowing Spock well enough to be able to push him into talking, not to mention coaxing an expression out of him. Either he was just that annoying, or he Spock found the idea of correcting him irresistible.

‘Whatever you say, Spock.’ Jim fought to keep the smile from his face, leaning forward to break the creepy calm that had fallen over the room.

‘Romulans prize cleverness and ambition above respect,’ Spock said. ‘That a prisoner would have been able to achieve feelings of admiration toward his captors in such a short time would not appear reasonable to them. Therefore, you must offer a motivation they will understand. When you present me as your prisoner, you should imply that it is because you desire advancement—a position in her household, or at the very least, your own private quarters.’

Jim scratched an itch at the side of his nose, filing the information away for later.

‘I could use a better room,’ he said. ‘Different color scheme. Less  _green_. This means you’re on board, right? You don’t have to say anything. Blink once for yes, twice for no.’

Spock blinked once.

It wasn’t so bad being the brains of the team after all.

‘You will need something with which to “tie me up”,’ Spock informed him.

‘You have  _no_ idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear you ask me that,’ Jim replied.

There were rope ties drawing back the curtains from the windows, perfect for Jim’s purposes. Jim got up to examine them, bracing one boot against the wall to yank one free of its moorings. He got an extra little thrill out of tearing apart the décor in the room, the curtain fabric tumbling free to cover the windowpane and casting half the room into pale gray shadows.

‘After all,’ Jim added, ‘considering I was _your_ prisoner for over a week, I’d say this has been a _long_ time coming.’

‘The ruse will not be plausible if there are no signs of resistance. It would be impossible to believe that you should not encounter difficulty in proving victorious against me in one-on-one combat.’ Spock was standing when Jim turned with the tassled rope in hand. Jim swung it in a circle, even though he knew Spock wouldn’t get the right thrill from seeing him show off. ‘Therefore I believe the appropriate phrase in this situation is that you must “rough me up”.’

‘Yeah, now you’re talking, Spock.’ Jim tossed the rope over the side of the couch, crossing back to stand with Spock—face to face, though Jim had to tilt his chin up a fraction so that they were eye to eye. Spock’s soft mouth against his hard jaw made Jim lick his lips, mapping the details on his body, what would be showy enough while maintaining plausibility. ‘Any suggestions?’

‘Broken furniture, to begin with,’ Spock said.

Jim picked up a vase, testing its weight. It was made of a thin, delicate clay that shattered in a shower of chalky dust. ‘Hope I didn’t just destroy something too precious. You recognize the craftsmanship?’

Spock continued to watch Jim as he kicked over a chair, followed by a table, spilling a vase of pale orange liquid onto the rug. He tugged a seam loose on his shirt as well, tearing open the front, then found himself in front of Spock all over again, breathing just a little more quickly.

‘Where should I start?’ Jim touched Spock’s cheek with two fingers, ghosting the tips down to his jaw. ‘Here, maybe?’

Spock didn’t flinch. He was fearless, and watching him stand tall was kind of amazing.

‘Hey, how about this,’ Jim said. ‘Open up the link. I mean, it’s only fair, right? You get half, I get half. We’ll split the pain, since you’re the one going to prison while I’m gonna be eating Romulan grapes out of a senator’s lap—at least until tonight.’

‘That would not be advisable.’

‘Since when have I ever listened to advice?’ Jim asked. ‘Come on. Just do it.’

It didn’t happen right away; nothing with Spock was ever easy. But it wasn’t logical to waste precious time, and before Jim could get too impatient, Spock lifted his hand to mirror the touch Jim had given him, fingerprints finding their familiar points of pressure. Jim shifted into Spock’s fingers without realizing it, while gravity rearranged itself around them, Jim’s center sliding somewhere closer to Spock.

 _That’s hot_ , Jim thought pointedly. _Is it supposed to be hot?_

‘It is done,’ Spock said. ‘Now begin.’

Jim’s knuckles caught Spock’s cheekbone with a sharp crack, echoes of that pain glancing through Jim’s face, somewhere much deeper than the healing gashes on his cheek. He ripped the front of Spock’s shirt after that, then fitted his hands around Spock’s throat and above the collar, tightening them just enough to leave faint marks above the metal.

No internal commentary passed between them through the bond. Spock had it under control. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel the pain—it was just that he didn’t allow it to have meaning for him.

‘Now turn around,’ Jim said. ‘Hands behind your back. Let me just get in there…’

Making sure a hot breath or two fell on Spock’s neck in the process, Jim slotted his body against Spock’s to twist the rope tight around Spock’s wrists. He gave it an extra tug for good measure, which pulled Spock’s ass against his hips, his knuckles digging into Jim’s belly, bare skin to bare skin. With the bond still wide open, Jim couldn’t tell which one of them was shivering.

Maybe, this time, it was both.

*


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daddy issues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are the best though seriously. Thank you always and forever for still reading!

Jim was a skilled fighter. Of this, Spock had been aware. He had understood Jim’s skill for deception and planning as well, but this marked the first time he had witnessed it used in his favor, instead of directly against Spock and his resources.

Spock could, therefore, appreciate Jim’s skills from the position of bystander instead of as an opponent. It was a perspective he had never before been afforded, as he was always across the chessboard, sitting opposite Jim in a game of  _kal-toh_.

It took exactly eight minutes and seven seconds after Jim had struck the forcefields around the window to draw the attention of their captors before a retinue of guards arrived to investigate the commotion. Jim dug his boot into the arch of Spock’s back, having thrown him to the floor, and demanded an audience with N’Mara, one that was arranged through hologram.

Jim named his terms. Spock could hear him following the very advice he had been given: demanding respect rather than showing it. N’Mara was interested, as Spock had known she would be. He himself had experienced the intrigue of a man like Jim Kirk, the combination of his bright eyes and the words that fell quick and clever and cutting from his crooked mouth. It was easy to paint Spock as the undesirable, as Vulcans did not ingratiate themselves to their captors.

It was often to their detriment, but it was a matter of personal dignity rather than succumbing to ambition and the instinct for selfish survival, both prized by Romulans and humans.

Spock knew the negotiations were complete the instant Jim took his boot from his back. Hard hands replaced that weight, hauling Spock to his feet.

Romulans were all too willing to believe in a Vulcan betrayal. There were generations of mistrust between their two peoples, an irony made all the more poignant by their shared heritage.

They were too close to be anything but enemies.

Perhaps it was an illogical ideology, but Spock had found it to be accurate nonetheless.

He did not look back as the guards hauled him from the room, leaving Jim to chat with the projection of N’Mara. They were making an appointment to meet and discuss Jim’s advancement; perhaps his description of intimate events to take place in the near future was not so far off as he might have imagined.

For a moment, Spock admired Jim’s ruthless exploitation of his brief advantage.

Yet there was little opportunity to do so at length. Spock was pushed into the turbolift and escorted onto a shuttle, where his observation of the surrounding view was obscured by a Romulan guard slipping a bag over his head. The level of secrecy suggested that Jim was likely correct in his assessment that George Samuel’s whereabouts and Spock’s would soon be one and the same.

Even should Spock be able to place him nearby, he would have no knowledge of their location in the greater scheme of the city, save for what he had memorized from Jim’s map.

That was why he had memorized the map in its entirety.

A host of other clues to his more exact location—such as sounds and time as indicative of distance—were accumulated during his transportation. When combined with the map schematics, Spock was not entirely lost.

He was, however, entirely alone. It was not with consideration or any particular care that he was thrown into a cell; the bag over his head was not removed. If he was lucky—and he did not rely on luck or place any value in its stock—then he would not be brought to one of the infamous Romulan agonizers immediately. The odds that any torture exacted against him would not be purely physical in nature. The Vulcan capacity for withstanding such assaults was legendary, even in the Alliance.

Spock listened to the doors as they shut and the muted beeping of lock codes.

After so much time spent in close proximity to Jim, who abhorred a silence as nature abhorred a vacuum, the absence of another, immediate presence was noteworthy. Spock had spent so much more of his life before Jim without him—naturally, it would not prove difficult to revert to those standards.

Besides which: Spock was not entirely without Jim.

He would never be entirely without Jim again.

Spock waited on a count of ten minutes, his own breath trapped hotly within the bag. Then, he tested the open link, the bond that Jim had demanded without understanding and which Spock had given only upon their understanding of one another.

He did not request that Jim answer. In fact, it was preferable that he should not. He understood that Jim would be busy with the Romulan senator, N’Mara, and he would not have Jim pause in their dealings to reassure him, for reassurance meant nothing to him at this time. It was merely a reminder: that Spock was alive and, for the present, well, and that he would be receptive to any connection that Jim would make when the right opening was found.

After that, Spock drew upon the memories Jim had given him of George Samuel. They had not come consciously; rather, they were what Spock had gleaned, buried deep below Jim’s conscious, informing his actions and his words. They were a part of how Jim spoke as well as of what he said—and, perhaps most importantly, they were the reason why Jim had come to Vulcan, the catalyst for an unusual meeting. If Spock was the reaction, then George Samuel was the cause.

He was of special interest for these reasons, and Spock had already made a study of the individual who had such profound effect on someone such as James Tiberius Kirk.

There was no hope of establishing a telepathic connection with a stranger without physical contact and only the barest of bridges built by a mutual companion. What they had in common was Jim, but while Jim was capable of exceeding expectations, he was not a worker of miracles.

Miracles, like luck, did not exist.

However, Spock would not have indulged in the exercise if it had no purpose whatsoever. It strengthened his bond with Jim—and it would allow them to find George Samuel more efficiently, once Jim was able to get into the prisoner’s compound.

If Jim was able to get into the prisoner’s compound.

Spock, as always, knew the odds, with a margin for error based upon changeable variables.

All that was left for him was to wait—and, while he waited, to confront a voice of stern reason that sounded similar to his father demanding of him why he had chosen this alliance, why he had given this trust, and what he sought to accomplish.

For that voice, Spock had no ready answer.

He had only the reasons he had already given himself: that humans were, as they had ever been, the foundation of the Terran Empire, and that in the face of the new alliance formed with intent to crush them, Vulcans would have to strengthen their position. Jim’s arrival had presented to Spock a clear opportunity for doing so. It had seemed the natural solution to an obvious dilemma.

Yet Spock knew that no other Vulcan would have seen the opportunity presented by Jim’s attack. There was a definite element of illogic in the actions Spock had taken to bring him to this point. Imagination and intuition should not have been so powerful—and perhaps that was what troubled him.

It was not Jim’s behavior or the political machinations that had followed to which Sarek’s voice objected. It was Spock’s uncharacteristic participation therein that had sparked internal debate.

In spite of what he had told Jim, too much of this plan had been dependent on elements that could neither be sufficiently predicted nor controlled. There was luckinvolved, and a trust that Spock had placed in Jim’s ability to adapt and improvise. Even now, he was depending on Jim’s skill without being present in order to directly supervise how he chose to handle proceedings.

For Spock’s part, he was now closer to George Samuel than at any other stage in their mission, closer even than Jim. If an unacknowledged trust had been fostered between them due to their bond, then it was obvious that it stretched in both directions.

This would not have been enough to silence the voice of Sarek had he been present in Spock’s solitary confinement, but it did muffle the echo of Spock’s doubt.

Spock was half human. In order to commit himself fully to any course of action, he would have to accept both the halves of himself that contributed to his reason and judgment.

Time passed—three hours and seventeen point four minutes—with no message from Jim. At the third hour exactly, Romulan guards entered Spock’s cell in order to remove his hood and see that he took a meal. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the scant lighting before he studied his surroundings by sight for the first time. The room was tall and narrow, paneled in stainless steel with a ventilation shaft low to the floor, and a small, barred window near the top corner, where even Spock could not reach it if he stood and strained.

Daylight had passed, the sky fading to muted, bruise-dark purples and grays. Spock’s meal was nutrient paste on a plastic tray. He ate it with the fork concealed within his boot, stirring it together to keep the surface from forming a crust.

After he had finished, the guards returned and removed the tray. They came and left without a word, their silence itself a form of weaponry, honed to desensitize and disorient. They did not place the hood over Spock’s face again, but they removed him from the center of the room and chained him to the wall so that he could not pace if he desired to pass the hours with physical pursuits—and they made certain that his bonds would force him to remain on his feet so that he could not easily meditate.

Once again, these were not conditions Spock would be unable to endure. It would not be preferable, but it was by no means unbearable. He could therefore not expect the same conditions to last for long. Spock maintained a position that kept his shoulders from losing feeling in order to preserve maximum blood flow to the hands manacled above his head. He stretched the muscles in his calves, bracing himself on the balls of his feet, which also eased the tension formed in his arms and the tightness of the metal around his wrists.

From deep within the ventilation shaft, Spock’s ears—which, as they were Vulcan-sharp both literally and figuratively, had always been sensitive to sound—could hear the faintest, rattling echo. It was something like a cough, though it also held the peculiar quality of a laugh.

Had Spock been closer to the grate, he might have been better able to determine the tenor of the voice behind such a sound, or even hear the patterns of the individual’s breathing. But that no longer mattered, as a memory that Spock had found, one he had not experienced for himself, suggested the laugh was recognizable, if wearily so.

It belonged to the time and place Jim had reserved for knowledge and love of his brother.

George Samuel was, given the angle from which the sound had traveled, being held below Spock’s cell and somewhere to the left.

This would be useful. Spock did not permit himself to consider the information fortuitous; it was sensible that those prisoners of higher importance would be held in the same, tightly secured facility. Knowing the odds allowed him to avoid the easy trap of believing in matters of luck when reason offered a more tempered answer.

If Spock were to offer Jim this information before he was in contact, then he risked distracting him.

As he had done before, Spock waited.

Patience was not merely a virtue—it was a necessity.

At times, punctuating the silence, the same echo rose from below, clattering through the vent until it was swallowed by the metal and its quietude. George Samuel was alone, but he was talking, no doubt to combat the silence that had surrounded him—and to which, as a human, he was more vulnerable than Spock. He had been in captivity far longer than Spock; this did not surprise him when he discovered it, though it would in all likelihood trouble Jim.

Being held by Alliance forces would change anyone. To wait alone with no promise of rescue would have the greatest effect on a human’s sense of self by undermining their sense of time.

Finally, as Spock meditated despite the limitations of his discomfort, two hours and fifteen point four minutes past his first scheduled meal, Jim reached out to him, and Spock welcomed him inside. This time, it took only seconds for Jim’s consciousness to cohere from a questing potential to a single voice—even if that voice was muddled at the edges.

_You miss me, Spock?_

_It has not been long enough for me to experience that particular sentiment._

_Yeah, well I would’ve been with you sooner, but Romulans talk. Turns out I’m a desirable asset. Go figure._

_I believe it was exactly this characteristic upon which you were relying when you presented me with this strategy._

_Listen to you._ Jim’s amusement was palpable, keen beyond his feigned frustration.  _I try to make you jealous and you go quoting myself back to me. Typical Vulcan circular logic._

 _Our logic is not circular,_ Spock informed him. This topic was hardly pertinent, and yet Jim had a way of drawing Spock into discussions that had similarly little merit. In the absence of other external stimuli, Spock was more inclined to devote his attention to the conversation.

 _I’ll tell you what’s circular,_ Jim said,  _it’s you and me dancing around who’s gonna share primo gossip first. You wanna hear how Romulan women get their flirt on, Spock? Because I think you’d like it. A lot of political maneuvering for the most part. In fact, half the time, I wasn’t sure if I was playing her or she was playing me. The_ kal-toh _definitely helped with that._

Jim’s image shimmered in Spock’s mind. They were not close enough for Spock to be able to sense his physical form with any clarity, but he imagined there was an illustrative gesture to go along with the statement. There was honesty in his brief uncertainty, but he was not speaking of political maneuvers, not specifically.

 _Your brother is here,_ Spock told him.

That garnered an anticipated silence on Jim’s end of the connection, an uncharacteristic stillness that made Spock think, however briefly, that their tie had been temporarily severed. It was not just Jim’s silence that suggested he had left, but the absence of emotion that rested stark inside the place Jim occupied in Spock’s mind.

The bond could not be broken, but all forms of communication could be disordered or disrupted in some way.

_You saw Sam?_

_That is not what I said. I have not seen him._

This time, a bright fissure of frustration split across their connection, creating a crack in Jim’s concentration. This encouraged Spock to elaborate—not out of concern, but in the interest of clarity.

_The cells here are connected by a ventilation system, no doubt to keep our atmospheric controls separate from those of the guards. I have heard George Samuel on a floor below me. He speaks aloud to no one._

_So... Like a crazy person._

_I do not speculate,_ Spock replied.  _But if consulted, it would be my opinion that his efforts are expended in an attempt to retain his sanity and not because he has already lost it._

 _Yeah, that sounds like Sam._ There was no relief from Jim, only caution, pulled taut as a ligament before it snapped.  _He’s resourceful._

_Is that a trait common to members of your family?_

_Why—you interested?_ Another pause. Beneath the distance Jim sought to place between them, there were ripples of frustration and anger, of what may have been love at the center of those emotions, though it warped and twisted and grew thorns as it spread outward. He wrestled with it internally, though Spock was reminded of his body upon hot sand. _All right, so he’s there and so are you. I’ll have to remember to write the Romulans a thank you note for keeping everybody I’m looking for in the same place and making things so easy for me._

_Do not boast of success before it has been achieved._

_Easy for you to say. I didn’t come this far and do this much to do anything_ but _succeed._ Jim fought another swift battle with himself, which Spock observed as though they were shadows cast upon the wall of a cave. _Anyway, I bought myself a little bit of wiggle room. I also stole some kind of authorization card from my, uh, benefactor. I let her think I’m a little stupid—not too stupid, since she’s pretty smart—but just enough that it’s easy for her to look down on me. You know, like you do._

_That is not an accurate assessment of my opinion of you._

_Stop it with the compliments, Spock, or I’m gonna blush._ At least the banter seemed to steady him. It was the only logical reason for them to indulge in it. _Plus, that PADD I nabbed just so happens to have some intel on those nasty Romulan Warbirds, the ones that’re screwing the ‘fleet up on the edges of the hostile zone. I was thinking we’d fly one of them out of here, drop off the grid._

_And you intend to pilot the vessel in question, without having had the requisite training to be familiar with its navigational systems._

_Now you’re getting the hang of it._ Spock felt Jim’s grin tug at both their lips. _You’ve seen me in action. I’m pretty great._

_You must act quickly. There will be only one opportunity for you to exploit the stolen authorization and your present position without arousing suspicion._

_No kidding, Spock. That’s why I’m already on my way. See you soon, so don’t start the fun without me, all right?_

The likelihood of Spock having fun while in captivity, especially given its current terms, was so narrow that even Jim must have known it would not be possible. Yet he slipped away as grains in a handful of sand. Spock did not tighten his grip because he knew it to be futile, and he was left with the same silence against which George Samuel had waged a war of one.

There was no merit in establishing a potential time-frame for Jim’s arrival; there were too many variable factors within the equation. Spock returned to meditation, so that when Jim did arrive—if Jim’s self-confidence led him, as it so often did, to victory—his thoughts would be clear, an ample barrier established between his mind and the chaos of Jim’s emotional state.

His reunion with his brother would not be as he had hoped—and Spock knew just how much hope Jim had allowed himself to harbor, hidden away in every shadow, buried deep. He had attempted to keep that hope even from himself, but Spock had found its glimmers, as they were cast against the darkness and therefore more easily discovered.

Spock would have more than himself to control. And Jim would need all his faculties operating without dysfunction in order to pilot their Warbird during their escape.

From the vent below, laughter bubbled, then faded just as it began.

It was impossible for George Samuel to have gained an awareness of their plans, and yet it was as if he had overheard their private communications and drawn comfort from them all the same.

Either that, or he was laughing because the potential image of Jim riding to anyone’s rescue offered him amusement.

Such flights of fancy were not in Spock’s nature. Yet his bond with Jim had left a shadow of Jim’s impulsive human characteristics behind, as though thoughts could leave fingerprints upon the brain. It would make them both stronger—if they could accustom themselves to the changes.

Whether Sam was aware of it or not, his time in captivity was drawing to a close.

Whatever he required in order to pass the time, Spock did not begrudge him his methods.

*


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A daring rescue and a not-so-daring rescue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amazing art done by quintotriticale on tumblr!

Jim’s collar was the first thing to go.

Figuratively speaking, anyway. It still hung like a cool, dead weight around his neck, but the thing didn’t feel like it was strangling him anymore. That was a convenient metaphor—now that it had lost its power to keep him in one place, Jim didn’t have to worry about it. As an accessory, it could’ve been a lot worse.

It had taken him hours and no small amount of research on the PADD to figure out how to get rid of it—at least, how to shut it off without triggering any of those pesky alarms. That turned out to be the key. If it was locked to his vital signs, he couldn’t replace his presence with an unconscious Romulan’s, and he certainly couldn’t be in two places at once.

It was only when he stopped thinking about the collar as the problem that he got anywhere. It wasn’t the collar he needed to bypass. It was those alarms.

And, naturally, a guard’s PADD would have access to those control systems. He had snagged N’Mara’s wine glass, scanning a fingerprint she’d left on the side to get him past any pesky security measures that a lowly guard wouldn’t be able to mess with.

It was actually shamefully easy.

But that was the deal with Romulans. They thought a lot of themselves, so much that they assumed a simple human would be too stupid to crack their codes.

Jim knocked out the first guard he saw with a headlock that cut off the flow of blood to his brain, dragging him back into his rooms so he could strip him to trade clothes.

‘Nothing personal,’ Jim told him. ‘Under normal circumstances, I’d be buying you dinner first.’

He didn’t answer, which put him just below Spock-level when it came to conversation. After all, he had an excuse.

One advantage of stealing an outfit from a guy who didn’t sweat: there were no weird smells on the inside of the helmet. Jim was remembering all the details so he could tell Spock about them later.

If he thought about Spock now, he’d just get caught up in his head.

He kept Sam confined to a separate mental space entirely, because according to Spock, Sam was talking to himself like some kind of Count of Monte Cristo, Edmond Dantes bullshit that Jim couldn’t begin to imagine. Not from Sam. Of course, if Jim had been the one in solitary confinement, he’d be chatting it up to remember what voices even sounded like. Hell, he would have been doing imitations; his Admiral Pike impression was spot on and everybody said so, even the ones who didn’t like him.

It might have been nothing more serious than that. A tactic, and a smart one, to exercise the brain.

Sam knew what he was doing. He always did.

Jim tugged the last of his guard robes into place, smoothing down a lump, pausing to check himself out in the full-length mirror. Not his style, but he pulled it off. The outfit had a pocket for the PADD and he had the access card, not to mention the scan of N’Mara’s fingerprint, so it was clear Spock’s influence was rubbing off on him. He was more prepared for this than he had been during his last stand-alone mission, and since that had turned out all right, there was no reason to think he wouldn’t pull this one off without sweating up the pristine helmet too much.

He locked the door behind him, leaving his dealings with N’Mara behind him too. He hadn’t been able to shake the feeling while he’d been dealing with her that she was toying with him, a cat with a mouse, wanting a little entertainment before dinner. But whatever her plans for him might have been, he wasn’t giving her the chance.

Then he put his head up, trying to look as tall as possible, and started off like he knew what he was doing, like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

The more confident he appeared, the less chance there was of somebody questioning whether or not he belonged. It was infiltration one-oh-one.

Aside from a close call—almost running into an official patrol that would definitely have known he was somewhere he shouldn’t have been, flattening himself against the wall at the last second and breathing only after the threat had passed—Jim made it down to ground level on the turbolift and into open air without a hitch.

It was dark, but unlike Vulcan, Romulus had its very own moon—not that Jim had the time to stop and admire it. He hopped a transport by flashing the guard’s ID and got off before the main prison compounds, walking the rest of the way. Instead of sticking to the shadows, he kept his eyes ahead of him and never stopped to glance over his shoulder or look from side to side. His blood was pounding, his heart racing, the helmet _so_ sweaty, but he was alive and in his element.

Sam was never going to believe him when Jim told the story of how he strode down the street and walked straight into the prison.

It was epic.

It was also gonna be a lot harder getting out than getting in, but Jim added that to the list of things he couldn’t—or didn’t want to—think about.

It took a lifetime to get clearance inside, even this late at night. When Jim stepped onto the turbolift and the doors closed and no guards broke in, shouting at him to halt, he wondered when the last time he’d breathed had been.

He blinked the sweat out of his eyes and decided against alerting Spock beforehand of his impending arrival. He brought the PADD out instead, scanning the levels for the sign of a freshly entered prisoner file.

Only one captive had been brought into the compound earlier that day.

He was on the twenty-seventh floor, which meant that Sam was somewhere on the twenty-sixth or lower. Spock hadn’t been specific about the details and Jim couldn’t blame him for that. His Vulcan hearing did him a lot of favors, but through something like a ventilation grid, it lost some of its precision.

Spock could do a lot of things, but he couldn’t see through walls and floors.

Jim was going to track him down—and then they were going to use their connection to find Sam together.

It sounded like a great plan, if he could actually get through it.

He drew in a deep breath behind the mask of his helmet. It smelled cold, metallic, not like someone’s face had been in it all day but still plenty gross. Marching down the corridor toward the turbolift took the same confidence Jim had been emanating all his life. No one stopped him. Commanding respect by looking like you knew were you were going was a universal trait—it applied to humans as much as Romulans.

That, and security was tight in these compounds for a reason. Anyone there had a reason to be.

No one was looking when Jim lifted his PADD subtly to hip-height, using N’Mara’s scanned thumbprint to open the turbolift and step smoothly inside. Movement near the door made him wonder if someone else was about to slip in with him, but it was just rotating shifts, a changing of the guard that Jim wasn’t about to get involved in.

The doors hissed shut behind him, leaving Jim with his fingers hovering over the buttons. He knew what floor he wanted—what he’d already committed himself to doing—but now that he was all by himself, with all the decisions under his power, he found his resolve swaying.

Sam was waiting for him. How could he deliberately choose not to see him first?

Jim touched the lever on the wall, playing a recorded translation of the Romulan for  _twenty-eight._ The turbolift shuddered and swooshed to life, nearly knocking him off his feet with its ungainly start.

‘All right.’ Jim shook out his arms, giving himself a pep talk. His voice echoed strangely off the inside of his helmet, but even with the distortion it didn’t sound even remotely Romulan. He didn’t have time to imitate the accent accurately. ‘All right, not bad. Phase one initiated. You can do this.’

Almost on cue, smack in the middle of floors seventeen and eighteen, the turbolift jerked to a halt. The lights went out, and the lever beneath Jim’s hand turned cold.

An announcement started up in steady, clipped Romulan. Jim tapped his PADD on in the dark, bringing up the translation software he’d cobbled together and lifting it to record what he was hearing.

_Emergency intruder. Maintain position until further notice._

They hadn’t really given him much choice in the matter.

Jim believed in luck a little more than Spock did and in chance even more than that, but he wasn’t about to fool himself into thinking that there was another intruder in the place at the same time as his attempted jailbreak and that the sudden shut-down had to do with them and not him. The sudden alarm must have been triggered by the fingerprint he’d used to gain access to the interior of the prison bloc. There were always contingencies; the best laid plans of Gorn and men, as the saying went, meant that hasty, last-ditch efforts to escape enemy territory were bound to hit a few major snags along the way.

Jim took a deep breath, stale air and clammy skin and metal plating inside the helmet combining with the tight, dark space in the turbolift to make for a seriously claustrophobic moment. But the simple truth was he couldn’t stay here to be shot full of phaser fire like a fish in a barrel. In the stalled turbolift he was a sitting duck, which meant it was time to get himself out of there.

A brief survey of the turbolift mechanics on Jim’s stolen PADD revealed that it would be way too complicated to hack into the system and get it moving again. Besides, that would be like painting a target on his location. There would be no doubt in any half-decent security officer’s mind that the intruder could be pinpointed the moment they started messing with a lockdown, so that was out of the question.

There were over ten levels left before Jim hit Spock’s floor. He could use the bond stuff to find Spock more easily and more inconspicuously than taking shot after shot in the dark, blindly searching for Sam’s cell.

The issue now was how the hell Jim was going to ascend those ten and a half floors. It sure wasn’t going to be the easy way, in the locked turbolift.

Not for the first time on Romulus, the ventilation system provided Jim with a windfall. The same system that had allowed Spock to pick up on Sam in the facility was the one Jim used in his favor now, jumping up to punch the panel loose. It took him four knocks and nearly total loss of feeling in his right pinky finger before the panel clattered to the ground, then two more jumps to catch hold of the ledge, gaining the needed purchase to haul himself up and squeeze himself through.

It was a narrow fit, but Jim sucked it in and pulled it off.

He was winded, but only briefly, pausing to reconfigure his strategy for scaling turbolift shaft walls. It wasn’t the first time he’d made his way through a building this way, foothold by handhold, scaling the wall from level to level. Honestly, it was a matter of pride by the time he hit the twenty-third floor. As long as Jim kept thinking about the looks on the Romulans’ faces when they realized they had failed to contain the intruder or thwart his escape kept him going while his muscles shouted in protest and the distance between him and the top of the turbolift grew in the darkness.

It was a long way down—but that only meant it was a shorter way up than it had been before.

The next obstacle came in the form of the shaft doors on the twenty-eighth level, which were sealed shut tighter than Spock’s lips when he didn’t feel like talking. Jim hung in place with his cheek pressed flat against the warm, curved metal of his helmet, squeezing his eyes shut and thinking not just of Sam but of Spock.

Spock, who had done this for Jim when he didn’t have to. What was a gambit for prestige and power on Spock’s part had nothing on the bid for a brother’s life—and Spock never had to agree to this crazy plan. Like it or not, it was on Jim to get Spock out of the mess he’d landed him in.

Jim grunted. He was too damn hot, but something cool caressed the base of his skull and the back of his neck, like the whisper of a far-off breeze. Not possible in a turbolift shaft.

_Am I to understand that the current security breach is in response to your incursion on the premises?_ Spock asked, only a split second later.

_Worried about me, Spock?_

_That assumption would imply that I would have placed my well-being in your hands without being assured of your abilities,_ Spock replied.

It was tough to judge sarcasm through a mental link, but Jim was pretty sure he was being mocked—which was real nice, considering how Jim was currently poised to break Spock out and all. Not so logical. That was probably Spock’s human side, and one Jim recognized, since he tended to do the same thing. Sometimes all you could do was insult the people in a position to help him whenever your need for help became too obvious to ignore.

_Yeah, well…_

Jim trailed off, trying to get his thoughts in a row. It was tough to concentrate when he was trying to work out how to rip open a steel door with his bare hands at the same time. Not to mention that warning pulsating in the back of his mind that repeated: if the Romulans caught him, it would make for a much less interesting story.

Dashing intruders didn’t get snagged by their enemies before they rescued their brothers.

Okay, so that wasn’t a trope. But it was going to be once Jim brought Sam back and the tabloids swarmed all over their story.

He was getting ahead of himself. Spock’s silence in the back of his head was expectant, reminding Jim that he hadn’t finished his sentence, as though anyone other than Jim was the one who had been left hanging.

Literally.

_Don’t suppose you have any tips on how to haul open a pair of turbolift doors that’ve been locked down without Vulcan strength, do you?_ Jim asked.

It was a fair question. If he could have borrowed Spock’s natural assets through their connection to do it, then he wouldn’t have a problem.

_If there are mechanisms for making an ascent within the shaft in the event of an emergency, then there must also be a manual release for the doors,_ Spock said. _Locate it—and, if necessary, reprogram it._

_Right,_ Jim said. _Of course. Simple as that._

There wasn’t a lot of light in the tunnel. He shifted, losing his hold with one hand to dig out his borrowed PADD, swiping his thumb over the screen to light it up.

_But,_ Jim added, _if I fall and die, I want you to know it was on your recommendation_.  _You can issue a cause of death to my mom: bad Vulcan advice._

_You will not slip,_ Spock informed him.

Somehow, his authoritative way of speaking made it seem possible, like Spock’s belief in him alone would keep Jim’s shaking fingers wedged into the groove he was holding.

Sure enough, with the light from the PADD screen to guide him, Jim discovered that just above the doors there was a round, iron wheel locked into place. If he turned it, the shaft doors would open.

He would have seen it eventually, but every second counted.

_Spock, I could kiss you,_ Jim said.

_I believe that is for me to decide_ , Spock replied.

_Takes two to tango. If anything, it’s for_ us _to decide._ There was more to the quip planned, but Jim hissed instead as the PADD slid loose from his sweaty fingers, swiping it out of mid-air before it hurtled down through the shaft to smash against the frozen turbolift below. The motion yanked at the one arm that was holding the vast majority of his weight aloft—and, for a gravity-defying moment, Jim almost went down with the PADD clutched to his chest.

Everything was darkness, only Spock’s voice anchoring him in place rather than dragging him into the depths. Jim’s fingers were an extension of that inner voice, and they dug so hard into the ledge that his bones creaked, but he managed to hold on.

After all, he’d promised Spock a kiss, and Spock hadn’t agreed to it formally yet, so there was plenty left for Jim to prove.

Gravity restored itself and Jim looked away from the darkness immediately, flattening himself against the solid shaft wall. Silence surrounded him; it could have swallowed him up, and Spock didn’t offer another reassurance.

Good thing Jim didn’t need it.

His arms were already starting to feel like rubber, but he was close enough now that he could work through that. His groan echoed through the silence, shaking it up just enough to remind him of everything he still had to accomplish.

Of course, the manual release was coded and locked. Jim braced his elbow on the ledge in front of the door, propped the PADD in front of his face, and hacked into the system fast and dirty, leaving as much chaos as possible as he went. Camera feeds going haywire, random alarms sounding in opposite blocs—the works. Finally, the door bleeped and opened enough for Jim to squeeze out into the hall and leave the turbolift shaft behind. That had been way too much turbolift action for the month.

It would be weeks before he’d get in one again, provided he had the opportunity. Only the next few minutes would tell.

_Get ready for that kiss, Spock—I’m coming for you._ Jim cast the thought into the space between him and Spock and waited for an answering echo, already starting down the hall. Eventually he was going to have to accept the implications of being drawn to Spock the same way opposite poles of a magnet were drawn to each other, but for now, it worked in his favor, and he wasn’t about to ignore something that could save their asses.

_It would not be unappreciated if you were to spend less time threatening your arrival and expend the majority of your energy on actions that will secure that arrival, instead._

_You think I’m not spending the majority of my energy on action right now, huh?_ Jim’s quickened breaths were proof enough of action, although Spock’s internal voice narrowed the focus of his presence to a single, sharp beacon. Jim knew the door he stopped in front of was Spock’s because Spock was behind it, radiating secret heat, like a hidden volcano. There was no other way to describe it.

There were no signs of guards yet, which might have been the first real stroke of luck Jim had seen all day. Spock’s silence was almost encouraging now, giving Jim the clarity of mind to get things done. It was a hell of a lot harder to hack into a high-security prison cell than it was to open up a turbolift door that was locked from the outside, but Jim had already sown the seeds of widespread system malfunctions. All he had to do was put some pressure on the weak spots—and all the cell doors on level twenty-eight opened one by one, down the hall like dominos.

Spock’s door shuddered open right in front of Jim’s nose without a piercing wail of the localized alarms. After all, the Romulans had been kind enough to turn off the grid in the entire compound, putting a freeze not just on turbolifts but on secondary alarm systems, too.

‘Honey, I’m home,’ Jim said. ‘Did you miss me?’

Spock let his chains speak for themselves. He fixed Jim with a gaze that made him feel like he was the one who’d been shackled, then held his manacles out expectantly.

Okay, so it wasn’t quite a warm welcome—but it was enough for the time being that Spock was vulnerable and probably hating it. In that situation, Jim wouldn’t have been particularly forthcoming either, and Spock was even worse than Jim was about his privacy.

He wouldn’t have let just  _anyone_  see him like that. Whether Spock wanted it to or not, their bond made a difference. Jim was special, just like he’d always wanted to be.

He dropped to one knee, taking Spock’s wrists to get an up-close and personal look at what he was dealing with. The cuffs weren’t exactly state of the art, but they were going to take some finagling.

‘Don’t suppose you’ve got that fork on you?’ Jim stole a glance at Spock.

He was watching Jim with an expression Jim had never seen before, almost like he trusted Jim to know what he was doing and expected him to follow through. Jim wasn’t sure if he was ready for that kind of responsibility.

Fortunately, he didn’t have the time to dig in and let its weight settle on his shoulders.

Spock’s eyes shifted to follow the path of Jim’s hand. Spock’s silent judgment made the back of Jim’s neck prickle, but for once it wasn’t followed by any smart remarks.

‘It is concealed beneath my belt,’ Spock said.

Jim snorted, then regretted it when he heard the way it sounded. He was going edit that part out of the story later; it didn’t fit the tone.

‘Figures. You did that on purpose so I’d have to put a hand down your pants—admit it.’

Jim didn’t wait for an answer before leaning forward, nipping in quick against Spock’s waist and digging his fingers under the length of his belt. They were working against the clock and Sam’s life was still on the line—so he couldn’t think about how the mesh of Spock’s shirt felt pressed against his knuckles, or how weird it was to get this close to someone who didn’t have any body heat to speak of.

Without distractions, Jim’s fingers sorted out the difference between fork and buckle. The thin twist of metal came loose in his hand, dragging along the thin skin below Spock’s navel while he wriggled it loose, giving him something to work with when he pulled the cuffs up to examine the lock.

It was in two parts, mechanical and electric, with the latter on its own separate circuitry. The latter was probably for occasions just like this one: if anyone tried to cut the power for a jailbreak. But that Jim could short out the mechanism before using the twin tines of the fork to pick the lock manually.

‘So I’m basically a genius,’ Jim said, offhand.

There was a sizzle and a pop and Jim’s fingers were shocked—Spock’s wrists were, too—and the manacles dropped to the ground with a thud. Jim shook out his hands, sucking his fingertips to cool them, while Spock started to the door.

He was assuming Jim would follow instead of wasting too much time on his burnt flesh.

In this case, he was right about Jim’s priorities. A little physical pain on top of the rest was nothing compared to whatever hell Sam had been through, and he’d been suffering for way too long for Jim to let his selfishness get in the way. He nearly crashed into Spock’s back in his hurry to bust out of the cell before the power went back up and the doors shut in front of them, trapping them both inside.

Two for the price of one. There was no way Jim was giving the Romulans and the Alliance the satisfaction of that success.

Even in the hall, Jim couldn’t allow himself to breathe a sigh of relief—and not just because Spock had turned to face him, his hand up, initiating a meld before Jim had a chance to catch his breath. It was quick and dirty, a phrase Jim would never have used to describe Spock until this, but Jim trusted that it had to be. The intrusion was sudden and rough as Spock dug straight to the necessary information: memories of Sam and emotions surrounding him, the history Jim shared with his brother, even the stupid, crazy, unrepentant love he had for him. It wasn’t about loyalty. It was even stupider than loyalty. Spock stripped it away like tearing off a bandage and left Jim reeling, blind for a few, white-hot moments before Spock grabbed Jim’s hand instead of his face.

_Come_.

_Sounds sexy when you say it like that_ , Jim managed.

Then, they were moving—moving together, not exactly like fighting in the arena, but running with the same steps like they shared the same legs, if only because they were chasing the same goal. Spock pulled Jim after him toward a locked emergency staircase and opened the door with the force of his Vulcan strength alone, not even grunting against the strain. Jim’s eyes widened. With their connection exposed like a raw wound, Spock had to hear him think a lone, ill-advised but totally impressed, _sexy_.

It didn’t stop him; it didn’t so much as slow him down.

Jim stumbled after him, down the steps and to the level below. Metal sheared; Spock opened the next emergency door by stripping the panels in the same way as the first.

This time, they weren’t alone.

Three Romulan guards waited for them, a sight that made Jim snort with adrenaline-fueled laughter. It was more of a bark than a chuckle, the only signal the guards had before Jim and Spock took them out in perfect tandem. It only took three blows. Jim went low, Spock went high, and the guards were nothing compared to a fully-grown Gorn, hungry and furious and looking to make them a snack before dinner.

‘They probably shouldn’t’ve let the Klingons give us so much practice,’ Jim said hoarsely.

Spock’s stance told Jim there was less than no time. The inclination of his head toward the right said everything else: that Sam was in that direction; that to rescue him now might be impossible; that Spock still intended to make good on his word. Jim’s giddiness left him, along with the color in his cheeks. He knew which door he wanted before Spock had to speak and he fell to his knees in front of it, working the same magic with his PADD that he’d used on Spock’s cell.

He still wasn’t prepared when the door rolled open. For one terrible moment, Jim didn’t know if he could lift his head and look inside.

The prisoner within sucked in a deep breath, the shadows he made pulling away from the change in the fall of light.

Jim didn’t have time for his own comfort. He wasn’t going to get caught being a coward this late in the game. ‘Stop staring and let’s get out of here,’ he said, forcing himself to lift his head at the same time.

His brother was there, leaning against the far wall with his knees pulled up to his chest. He was wearing the same clothes Jim had last seen him in, only the white jacket was faded to gray and the epaulettes peeling and grimy. His shirt was torn over his stomach.

Staring at Jim, he blinked and started to rise to his feet.

At least his sense of timing hadn’t suffered any.

In captivity, Sam had grown one hell of an ugly beard. It was a full two shades darker than his hair, marred by a salt and pepper streak that made it look like he had dribbled food from the corner of his mouth and down his chin and nobody had cared to wipe it away. As far as Jim could tell, it didn’t do a thing to conceal how much weight he’d lost. He was skinny as a rail, all bones and pale flesh; he must have skipped the whole gladiatorial combat in the fresh air portion of their captivity and gone right to home—trapped in a windowless steel room with nothing to occupy him but his own thoughts.

Jim had never given much thought to what it would have been like to get taken prisoner without a psychic Vulcan bond to pull him through the hours of silence.

He probably would have gone out of his mind.

_In his current state, it is unlikely that Prince George Samuel will be able to make a descent in the turbolift shaft similar to the ascent you made earlier,_ Spock said.

‘He’ll be fine,’ Jim replied.

‘What?’ Sam asked.

His voice came out rough, creaky with disuse, startling even himself. He was still looking at Jim like he didn’t believe his own eyes. Jim didn’t know enough about Romulan torture and interrogation to have any clue about what they’d done to him and “no visible marks” didn’t mean much in the grand scheme of things. Jim grabbed him by the arm, leading him out of the cell before the second patrol of guards showed up to find out what had happened to the first, after Jim and Spock had rendered them too unconscious to report in.

‘Nothing,’ Jim said. He held out his hand, something Sam had done for him countless times before, whenever Jim was straggling behind. ‘Come on.’

There were turbolifts locked down at the south and north of the building. Jim had come in from the south, but starting from Sam’s location, the north was closer.

Jim didn’t much like the idea of traveling new ground, only he had to do what was best for his brother.

He’d come all this way.

And Sam was still staring at him like he was a ghost or a trick of the light, when Sam was the one who looked haunted. Jim’s hands felt too big and his arms too small, a combination of clumsiness and uncertainty that wasn’t supposed to exist between brothers. Not between them, anyway; other families in the galaxy were fine with stabbing each other for the sake of succession, but Sam was the crown prince and he’d always had ideas of where to take the Terran Empire next, plans for Starfleet and expansion, treaties for peace.

The moment Sam stepped over the threshold, moving out from his cell and into the hallway, he froze. If Spock was impatient about the human weaknesses he’d been saddled with, Jim couldn’t sense it. Either he was too focused on Sam to notice or Spock was that good at keeping his emotions under wraps. Jim reached out to Sam again and Sam shied away from him, almost like he was looking to get back in his cell.

‘Sam, come on.’ Jim’s voice didn’t sound like itself, just the same as Sam’s. They were suddenly two different people in this place, in switched positions, and the whole thing had to be a mistake. Sam was stronger than this. A couple of Romulans and months of imprisonment wasn’t enough to stifle his hopes, to darken his dreams. ‘It’s me. I know I’ve got this crazy scar on my face, but it’s—’

Jim faltered, the weak grin his lips had formed twisting at the scabs on his cheek. No wonder Sam couldn’t handle his rescue party. It made no sense.

‘This way,’ Spock said. His voice was hard and without any of the kindness that threatened to crack in Jim’s throat, choking down his words like he was swallowing broken glass. On the surface, it sounded cold and even cruel for how uncompromising it was—a month ago, Jim would have misunderstood its unforgiving, unrelenting edge. But it was just strong enough that it sounded like a command, and Sam, who had been a prisoner long enough to rely on imprisonment for safety and familiarity, knew how to respond to a command. He had no idea what to do with Jim’s request.

Just as Jim had predicted, Sam straightened his shoulders and stepped forward, obeying Spock’s orders. It made Jim want to throw up; for the time being, he had to be grateful for something so awful.

And wasn’t that the way of their world?

*


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Escape strategies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ACK sorry this is hours late! I was out but now I am back and please forgive me! Hope you enjoy!

Jim’s thoughts were in turmoil. Spock could not allow them to distract him, as his keen thinking was now all that stood between their royal party and escape from Romulus.

Their practice at sparring and combat had prepared Spock amply for this task. Jim handed him the PADD and their fingers brushed without lingering, and without Spock lingering on the contact; he familiarized himself with the blueprints of the compound, then led Jim and his brother George Samuel to the north turbolift shaft.

Traveling in this manner would not be without difficulty, but the chance of detection would be smaller lowering themselves to ground-level in the shaft than utilizing the emergency stairs. As the guards with whom Spock and Jim had already dealt would be discovered all too soon, circumspection was more valuable than comfort.

Though it was not preferable for physical confrontations that George Samuel had gradually lost both muscle mass and weight and stood behind Jim now gaunt and frail, it remained a point of fact that carrying him down through the shaft would be a less cumbersome prospect.

Jim met Spock’s eyes; he knew what Spock was thinking. His mouth twisted and he said nothing, channeling his emotional response into action, assisting Spock in wrenching the doors to the turbolift open. Then, he settled his brother’s arms over his shoulders, with a hushed, ‘Hold on,’ muttered against George Samuel’s ear.

They began their descent into the darkness.

Spock looked upward only once, in order to ascertain the position of his companions as well as the position of the lift. It was not above them, which meant that they would have to pass through it to ensure their departure.

He had not discussed with Jim the new, relevant points of his escape strategy. During the few private moments afforded to them, Jim had mentioned in the vaguest of terms locating and securing a Romulan ship with a cloaking device, but he had not been clear on the necessary details in a fashion that would enable Spock to expand on the plan where he had neglected elaboration.

It was not strictly accurate to say that Jim had stopped being useful to the escape in the most literal sense. He was acting in a capacity Spock himself could not have, providing George Samuel with the necessary ballast to remove him from his term of imprisonment, yet he was also unmistakably distracted.

Previously, Jim’s desire to reach his brother had given him incomparable focus to accomplish the task at hand. Spock could not assume that this motivation would remain a constant now that he had reached the main checkpoint of his goal—and now that George Samuel’s rescue had ceased to be a mere concept in his mind.

Jim was mentally removed enough from their current situation that he could not sense Spock’s doubt. He was aware only of his brother, a crushing focus that threatened to consume Spock as well. George Samuel’s weight may as well have been equally braced over both their shoulders as the two of them above Spock as they made their way hand under hand and level by level, down through the shaft.  

Although they had not discussed it, Spock had placed himself in the most vulnerable position as though the decision was natural to him. Of the three of them, it was only Spock who possessed the strength to halt their fall if Jim should slip.

It was not that Spock did not trust his grip—but the addition of George Samuel’s weight to his own, however diminished, would upset his balance.

‘Wait,’ Jim said.

By Spock’s calculations, they were only two-thirds of the way down. But he halted all the same, adjusting his hold on the grooved notches that lined the smooth steel walls of the turbolift shaft to look up at the brothers. The future of the Terran Empire was housed within this shadowy space, and that future offered unpredictability as well as potential.

‘There’s a maintenance hatch near here,’ Jim said. ‘We could climb out—scale down the outside of the building instead.’

‘Is it your belief that this will make our escape less evident?’ Spock inquired.

‘No, it’s my belief that I don’t wanna run into all the guards swarming the entryway,’ Jim replied. ‘Jesus, Sam, what are your bones made of? Straw?’

George Samuel’s silence concerned Jim and was therefore a concern of Spock’s. It did not cause Jim to loosen his hold, but it settled in his gut because it was too heavy to remain in his chest without sinking, and added yet more weight to that which Jim was carrying.

‘Logical,’ Spock conceded. With his superior strength, it fell to him to open the maintenance hatch. He held it in one hand, the strain on his forearm and shoulder noticeable, but not unbearable, as Jim hoisted Sam through, then followed closely behind. At that, Spock allowed the hatch to drop behind him, the cacophony of each slam and clatter echoing upward through the shaft. It would serve as a decoy to their true location—Spock did not append to that thought an influence of Jim’s, which was: _if they were lucky_.

Matters of luck were no longer in play. They faced matters of averages, of possibility. They also faced the cramped, sloped journey through the maintenance shaft, followed by the steep and perilous descent that awaited them on the outside of the prison compound building.

‘As plans go,’ Jim said, wind whipping their vulnerable forms where they were flattened against the sleek stone edifice, ‘I’ve had worse. I mean, this whole trip is proof of that.’

The wind swallowed the rest of his words.

Nothing of value went unheard.

There were seven stories left below them; a fall would have proved fatal. Jim’s mind had already begun to wander, as he found himself unable to trust his brother’s grip around his neck. It was true that George Samuel’s hands had begun to shake the moment they breathed fresh air and he had seen the vast expanse of the city laid out before them, scattered street lights faint against the rising dawn.

‘A Vulcan,’ George Samuel said, just as Jim’s arms tensed and his muscles tightened, about to lower himself toward his first foothold. ‘You—and a Vulcan?’

‘Nah,’ Jim replied. He laughed, but the laughter was not genuine. ‘Half-Vulcan, half-human. It makes all the difference.’

His foot slipped, swinging wildly, then slid into place.

Their progress was slow, but it could have been slower—and Spock could not fault their preference for safety over speed. They had also found themselves on the opposite side of the compound from its main entrance; as alarms were raised and power returned to the complex, searchlight beams fell elsewhere.

Jim muttered under his breath as he went, so quietly no one else but Spock would have been able to hear him. ‘I gotcha,’ he said, over and over with the rhythm of his heartbeat. ‘I gotcha, I gotcha.’

It was no leap of faith to assume he was speaking to his brother, offering promises that he could not, with certainty, hope to fulfill. Yet, though there was no logic in this course, it was not without merit, either.

After five minutes and seventeen seconds of painstaking, vertical travel, Spock’s feet landed on solid ground. Jim followed thirteen point six seconds later, George Samuel limp against his back. Jim’s knees trembled once, then strengthened, and he slung George Samuel’s arm over both shoulders.

‘Always wanted to fly one of those new Romulan Birds-of-Prey,’ he said, his voice a strained whisper. ‘Told Sam I would. He told me I was crazy. Now who’s crazy, right?’

Spock did not touch Jim or offer the gentleness of reassurance. It was not his currency. Instead, he confirmed with Jim the location of the same docking bay into which they had been taken—an attention to detail that would allow Jim to achieve that presumably lifelong desire.

His eyes flashed when they met Spock’s, and shared with Spock his adrenaline and purpose, a raging heat that had not been tamped down by the reality of the brother in his arms or the truth of glory, which was no more than a measure of despair and sacrifice to fuel success.

They had not yet snatched victory from the jaws of insurmountable odds.

The city would have been darkened and wholly quiet at this hour, were it not for the silent alarms flashing in a widening grid around the prison compound from which they had absconded. The Romulans were a secretive people, not given to loud demonstrations where quieter, subtler means could be employed. The right signals reached the right eyes and ears.

Jim tucked George Samuel into a nearby alcove and indicated for Spock to conceal himself there. They waited as Jim made use of his stolen uniform followed by an efficient headlock to secure a transport vehicle.

George Samuel’s eyes remained on Spock in the shadows, taking the opportunity to observe the half-human, half-Vulcan with whom his brother had chosen to ally, rather than devote himself to the study of his own brother.

‘He’s picked up a few things,’ George Samuel said.

That was the family resemblance Spock had not yet seen: the ability to make small talk no matter the tenor of the moment.

‘Prince James has proven very resourceful,’ Spock replied.

It was not an admission. Spock had been present to observe some change in Jim of which George Samuel was unaware; it would benefit Spock’s understanding of the latter to see how he reacted to this revelation.

However, there was no time for further discussion, as Jim dispatched with the guard and hurried back to fetch his brother.

He was not preoccupied with matters of George Samuel’s health; he did not dote on him or fall prey to sentimentality, a misguided sense of familial duty. Jim took care of him without worrying about his ego—whether or not he would be frustrated, treated like a simple child—a practicality that overrode his inner turmoil.

Spock could respect that. There was no room for pride in circumstances of life or death. Matters of Spock’s ego were equally irrelevant; it did not bother him to cede control of their situation and follow Jim’s lead as they tucked into the transport single file.

It was Jim who drove them to the hangar. The journey was a silent one, their prison vehicle slipping in amidst the other traffic, a quicksilver flash through the purpling night sky, with George Samuel flattened against the back seat and Jim’s face obscured behind his helmet. Spock kept watch from the windows, monitoring the approach and speed of the other hovercrafts.

As of yet, none of them had planned an intercept course.

George Samuel’s uneven breathing was a distraction in the quiet of the vehicle. His hands were trembling, even as he pressed them to the upholstery in an effort to stop it.

Spock glanced sidelong at Jim, but his attention was fixed on the sky-scape ahead, reflected on his scratched visor.

‘Hang on,’ he said, as if sensing Spock’s attention. He was becoming more and more perceptive, his intuition strengthened by the development of their bond. ‘Gonna have to do a little creative maneuvering to get around these checkpoints.’

That was all the warning he gave before the ship veered violently to the right, the hangar rising into view along the horizon.

Erratic driving of that sort would make of them an obvious target. Yet it was equally obvious that Jim’s solution to this threat was speed—that he intended to drive more quickly than any pursuer would be able to draw alongside them, and with skillful evasive maneuvers to avoid immediate capture.

As a first ride free from captivity and the stillness of Romulan chains, George Samuel could not have been prepared for the intensity of Jim’s choices. Their vehicle rose and dove with alarming frequency, cutting a path so erratic and so unpredictable that no well-ordered Romulan mind could hope to anticipate Jim’s next decision. The ultimate destination was easily determined—their only reasonable goal would have to be the docking bay—but Jim did not allow their pursuers, growing in numbers in security vehicles that fell into the traditional V formation, to overtake them.

Spock had seen enough of Jim in action to be certain that, in a match between Romulan tradition and Jim Kirk’s improvisational talents, the former could not hope to find victory. If this was indeed the phenomenon known as faith, then at least it was not blind.

Their arrival in the docking bay was via an empty hangar; the shrieking of the brakes was enough to cause Spock a temporary but powerful deafness. His ears still rang as the shrill squealing faded, sparks flying. The vehicle itself, having overshot the mark, slammed into the far wall just as Jim jumped from behind the wheel, tucking and rolling toward relative safety.

The solid steel wall crushed the front of their transport immediately on impact. An unspoken signal of Jim’s had forewarned Spock of that impact, as well as the pressing need to pull George Samuel free before he too was crushed between metal and more metal and left as nothing more than a stain on Romulan ground.

George Samuel’s eyes found Spock’s, both of them crouched amidst the debris. ‘A Vulcan,’ George Samuel said, as though his thoughts had been equated to speech during his solitude, and he now had no means of determining one from the other, ‘rescuing me. Has the galaxy changed that much?’

It was not the galaxy that had changed. It was merely the relationship between two individuals within the galaxy, and it should not have made so significant a difference on the cosmic scale.

George Samuel’s recognition of it, however, could not be discounted. Neither could his choice to freeze at a time when action was still vital. Spock lifted him bodily and easily; his mouth opened in wordless protest, going limp in Spock’s grip.

About thirty-seven and a half centimeters to Spock’s left, Jim hissed a cheer of grim pleasure—as proud of himself as he was aware that his triumph would mean nothing were it to end here. His knees were bruised and battered, but he pushed himself to his feet without swaying, and Spock sensed his course before Jim broke into a run. A bond would not have been strictly necessary for Spock to determine Jim’s choice of ships, as they required a cloaking device to evade Alliance ships, and for a cloaking device they required a Romulan Bird-of-Prey.

Jim was drawn to one such ship with a homing precision Spock could not immediately explain, swinging himself inside just as a round of phaser fire opened on the hangar. This time, George Samuel went rigid instead of limp. For a man who had believed himself dead already, death held an impossible and overwhelming new meaning. He feared it nearly as much as he craved a release from having to fear it.

A well-aimed shot caught Spock in the shoulder. He ignored the pain; the reality of the situation was what drove him forward, handing George Samuel off into Jim’s waiting hands. Another shot clipped Spock in the back of his knee, and he would have lost that leg to a third if Jim had not swung him up into safety, sweating and gasping, eyes wide with Spock’s pain.

Spock did not apologize, as an apology would have served no purpose. He had taken deliberate care to warn Jim of the dangers and potential drawbacks to being joined and Jim had persisted despite those warnings. As in all things, he had chosen to experience, rather than to heed caution. It would not prove detrimental so long as he did not allow it to hinder his progress.

As he hauled Spock through the open doors to safety, it was obvious that there was not much Jim Kirk allowed to hinder him.

‘I’d ask if you’re all right, but I already know the answer,’ Jim said. ‘Weird, huh?’

That was indeed one word for it.

Jim’s grip on Spock’s hand tightened, holding him in place to look him over before he released him. He did not require Spock’s intervention in order to know that this was not the proper moment for emotionalism or sentimentality. Spock was injured, but the injuries were not fatal.

More importantly, the Romulans were firing on their ship.

‘Jim,’ Spock said.

A current of emotion passed through their fingers before Jim could stop it. His concern was not limited to Spock’s wounds. There was his brother’s diminished spirit, their escape, and the pitfalls of the long flight to Vulcan to consider. These thoughts traveled through Jim’s mind in a flash—and then they were gone, snaking past as cleanly as a strike of lightning in an electrical storm.

The ship rumbled. Someone on the ground had seen fit to switch from personal weaponry to something more substantial. Phaser cannons would soon be employed and real damage would be done to the hull of their ship if they did not move quickly.

Their hands parted and Jim stood, without stretching his aching legs before he hurried to the cockpit. On his way, he secured George Samuel’s restraints, keeping him buckled into his seat before he turned to manning the flight controls.

‘Good thing I practiced my Vulcan on the way here,’ Jim said. There was tension in his voice as the ship rocked with the force of Romulan fire being issued. ‘You guys have similar base patterns in your language, did you know that? Similar ship designs, too. Must be why you hate each other so much.’

Spock pulled himself up. The damage done to his leg prevented it from bearing any significant weight; his shoulder had been struck on the opposite side. That made it more cumbersome for him to manage his injuries. He could not favor his right or his left sides, but he could manage the short distance to strap himself in at the navigational station.

Once he was sitting, he could put himself into a trance that would speed his recovery.

Under Jim’s hands, the ship shuddered to life.

‘You trust me, right?’ Jim asked.

He should not have required confirmation; whatever trust had once been in question was a matter of fact between them now, more real and more vital than George Samuel’s slumped form, which itself seemed more shadow than skin. Spock’s fingertips might as well have been raw, burned by the shared emotion he had found in one simple touch of Jim’s hands. It did not overwhelm, but it was not easily silenced—neither was it easily forgotten.

‘Yeah, you’re never gonna answer that,’ Jim said. ‘Thrusters on full. I got this.’

What Jim had ‘got’ was always a matter of multiple interpretations. Yet Spock could not deny that when the first beam of phaser cannon-fire struck the hull of the ship, the engines were already roaring, with Jim adapting to his position as pilot most admirably. Spock filtered and processed and categorized his pain; the Bird-of-Prey shuddered and shook; what required healing would not skew Jim’s focus from the dashboard lights and the Romulan layout of ship-wide controls.

The starboard wing of their Bird-of-Prey caught the wall of the hangar when it first shot forward, achieving sudden and untamed velocity with a single press of a control. Jim shouted, wild and proud, and, at the corners of Spock’s mostly occupied concentration, came the anguished tug of the echo Jim’s cry made through his brother’s bones.

This was the reason why Jim had requested proof of Spock’s trust. His own brother did not—could not—trust him, and the human ego was linked with its sense of external confidence.

Still, even going without, Jim was as determined as ever to prove himself. The second direct hit they received came from ahead; a ring of smaller, patrol hovercraft had commenced firing on them.

‘Now you see me,’ Jim said, Spock’s every vein attuned to the contractions of Jim’s lungs and the hum of his voice in his throat, ‘now you don’t.’

The Bird-of-Prey shuddered again and dropped sharply below the line of phaser fire. That fire continued, streaking beams missing their invisible mark, but the lights on the dashboard indicated that they were completely cloaked.

The shift had been instantaneous. It was technology that would prove invaluable to the Vulcan and Terran Empires, and they could be certain the Romulans would seek to protect their prototypes at all costs.

That fact did not make their ascent an easy one. Their exact location could not be scanned while cloaked, but mere seconds after cloaking, it would entail only a simple equation to predict. Once more, Jim’s capriciousness was an advantage, as he twisted their ship into a steep dive—a maneuver he favored, given past precedent—rather than rising higher above the neighboring buildings and soaring off-world, achieving escape velocity. The former strategy would have been what the Romulans expected, as the latter was, superficially, nonsensical.

Indeed, high above them, the patrol-crafts fired upward, assuming an immediate choice to gain altitude rather than to sacrifice it and court further complications weaving between the tall buildings without collision.

‘Oh my God,’ Jim said. ‘It’s got heat sensor dampeners. Things are gonna get cold in here, Spock. Think you can handle it?’

He made no mention, though Spock sensed the urge being quashed, of intimate methods to keep Spock warm. The temperature lowered and Spock adjusted his breathing accordingly, slower and deeper, halfway in a healing trance state. He would manage, and Jim knew this.

As Spock healed, Jim flew.

The Bird-of-Prey they had commandeered was a small vessel, compact but powerful. Jim had bypassed its emergency lock system somehow—Spock suspected he had a scanned fingerprint at his disposal—and as Romulus lit up around them, searchbeams scanning the sky, they remained unseen, more powerful than a ghost and also quieter, skimming rooftops as they evaded detection.

It was an hour before Jim altered their trajectory and they began to rise. Two separate biological rhythms cocooned Spock’s own: Jim’s on one side; George Samuel’s on the other. The latter was barely a whisper, while the former was a tidal roar.

The physical markers of similarity between them were clearly visible, yet beneath the surface, there was little to suggest they had been raised in the same home and shaped by the same upbringing. George Samuel did not currently possess the same vitality of purpose that gave direction to Jim’s otherwise directionless spirit.

Despite what was not immediately observable, it was not impossible for Spock to reconcile the differences between the two Kirks. He had come to know Jim at a difficult time in his life; the characteristics he had displayed were those of a man under pressure, and not necessarily ones that might have presented themselves under other, more ideal circumstances.

Spock’s common sense told him that a life within the Terran Empire would always demand excellence of its members to ensure their survival. To imagine that Jim’s background had ever offered calm or comfort, even taking his elevated status into consideration, would have been unacceptably naïve.

The temperature did not rise along with the ship’s elevation. Jim was displaying what was for him an uncharacteristic amount of caution. Although Spock did not probe their shared connection, he suspected that the change in Jim’s demeanor had less to do with external dangers and everything to do with the presence of George Samuel on board the vessel.

Spock monitored the latter in his peripheral vision. His physical condition was poor; though Spock could not calculate exactly, not without joining minds, his mental condition seemed to be equally poor.

Spock would not speculate as to what the Romulans had done with their royal prisoner. Rumor and fear clouded the details of their interrogation tactics, but judging from George Samuel’s condition, he would not be answering any of Spock’s questions in the near future.

They flew through the blackness of space in relative silence. Jim calculated their course while Spock monitored the navigational computer from his position, watching Jim’s tensed shoulders at the flight deck.

Responsibility for others was a duty all royalty undertook as a matter of their birthright; this was not the first time Spock had been given real evidence of Jim’s devotion to his brother. It was that motivation that had brought him to Vulcan and to Spock in the first place. However, it was one thing to acknowledge what must have been the truth in the abstract, and another to observe its manifestation in person.

‘Should be all right to adjust the environmental controls soon,’ Jim said. ‘Now that the Romulans aren’t crawling _right_ up our asses.’

He looked over his shoulder, his profile illuminated by the glow of the controls below him. His lips stretched into a smile, but the expression did not touch his eyes.

‘Come on, you two. It’s not like we have to be quiet.’ His grin faltered, then anchored itself on his face. ‘Sam, I never thought I’d meet anyone who’d give me worse conversation than Spock, especially not my own brother. In space, no one can hear you struggling to make small talk.’

Jim had not achieved the desired, ritual disruption of tension he had sought. He glanced once more—and only once more—at his brother, his face turned fully from Spock’s view, the clenching of his jaw palpable despite the distance. The back of his neck was sunburnt, though the burns he had incurred while on Vulcan were beginning to fade, and the line of his hair was damp with cooling sweat. Another set of vivid contradictions, the drip of condensation disappearing below his torn collar into the shadows Spock knew not inside, but out.

Spock could not see Jim’s brother with Jim’s eyes, but he knew that what mattered on this voyage was that which Jim did not see.

‘Whatever,’ Jim said, and turned back to the ship controls. ‘I’m used to it.’

*


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I rescued my brother from captivity and all I got was this lousy t-shirt...

Like most of the rides Jim had been dealing with lately, he’d known the latest was going to be a long one even before it started—and that wasn’t even counting the hostile skies they were flying through and the Romulans that would be hot on their asses soon. At least the ship’s operational systems were shiny and new and the Bird-of-Prey offered countless opportunities for study, the kind that would keep Jim entertained for days on end when he had the chance to really get into the hardware.

Of course, they had all but ensured Alliance retaliation with their actions, so Jim wasn’t expecting to have his leisure time in a Vulcan docking bay, picking apart the technology behind the superior Romulan cloaking devices, anytime soon.

It offered a goal, anyway. One that couldn’t shrivel up in captivity, growing an awful beard and losing a great sense of humor.

None of that stuff was Sam’s fault, so Jim had the added bonus of hating himself for hating Sam for it. But no matter which way he flew, no matter what flight paths he took charting a course back to Vulcan, there was no navigating around the guy sitting only six feet away from him.

Jim’s brother. Less than he used to be; more than a ghost.

Jim had stopped looking at him, and that was for the best. Spock hated distractions on principle, so it stood to reason that anyone who was easily distracted was on his Vulcan version of a shitlist. Spock’s silence made sense, settled in like one of Spock’s coats on Jim’s shoulders—not that it felt natural to him, because it wasn’t, but it did feel normal, a second skin he could wear without needing to shed it too soon.

Yeah, the least of Jim’s problems was Sam’s attitude adjustment. There were pissed off Romulans that would be hell-bent on revenge; there was the new pain in the ass that was feeling Spock’s pain and Spock probably feeling Jim’s; there was the nasty scar on Jim’s face. Life was complicated enough without bringing disappointment into the mix.

‘Two hours and we’ll be clear of the Hostile Zone,’ Jim said, his voice ringing hollowly like a computer announcement before he coughed and tried again, ‘and another seven we’ll be home sweet burning desert.’

Spock’s eyes were shut, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t hear him.

And Jim got the same amount of acknowledgment from the guy meditating as he did from his brother, who wasn’t in a trance. Not an official one.

It was possible Sam didn’t know what to make of Jim’s choice of allies. Jim had shown up with a Vulcan prince and that must have come as something of a shock. Sam wasn’t the type to judge—or he hadn’t been, before months of his life were stolen from him. Before they lost George Kirk; before Sam disappeared; before Jim took off all his clothes in front of Spock to fix things somehow, someday.

Jim pursed his lips and let the air building up in his lungs hiss out through his teeth. He was grimacing more than grinning, but with his new scars, the two kind of looked the same to begin with.

He was going to look like a real tough guy if—no, _when_ —he made it back to Earth. There would be new stories involved, a new reputation to maintain.

Prince James Tiberius Kirk, who had scars from hand-to-hand combat with a Gorn. Prince James Tiberius Kirk, who had re-forged bonds with Vulcan, who had manned a private rescue mission to secure the safety of the Terran Empire’s heir. Prince James Tiberius Kirk, who had brought home a Bird-of-Prey with genuine cloaking technology for the science department to analyze and replicate.

If he was still interested in that Starfleet commission, he’d have a shoe-in for a captaincy.

At least, that was if he survived the potential interrogations headed his way. It wasn’t going to escape anyone’s attentions that they landed on Vulcan first. To the Empire, that would seem like favoritism, a chance for Vulcans to beat humans to the cloaking technology. There would be detractors who’d claim Jim was weak for running off to Vulcan in the first place, that he was a traitor, brainwashed, a danger to the crown.

With all his imagination, he couldn’t begin to picture what Winona was dealing with back home. He hadn’t been in touch because he’d told himself there was no point in making contact when he didn’t have Sam in tow.

Now that they were together again, there was still too much chance of the message being intercepted. No use in raising the Empress’ hopes only to have them blown apart mid-flight.

‘We are approaching a known patrol point along the far reaches of the Hostile Zone,’ Spock said. ‘It is likely the news of our escape will have already been transmitted. They will be on high alert.’

His voice scattered Jim’s thoughts like a well-timed shot from a disruptor. Jim had already resigned himself to taking their little voyage of the damned in silence, but he sat forward eagerly in his chair and brought up the radar display.

There were no heat signatures on the display, no sign of any ships standing between them and their next hour of traveling through hostile space.

That didn’t mean hostiles weren’t out there. After all, their own vessel wasn’t giving off any heat signatures, either.

Jim didn’t need to be inside Spock’s head to know what he was after. Spock thought Jim was distracted, that he needed the extra warning if one of those ships suddenly uncloaked to fire.

There was a chance he wasn’t wrong.

Jim checked their environmental controls to make sure the temperature was low enough to conceal their warm-blooded presence—plus Spock, who had taken on the cold like he was one of the alloys that comprised the ship itself.

Jim was going to make that up to him once they were back in Empire-patrolled space. And maybe he wouldn’t complain about the heat on Vulcan so much once they arrived, for a few hours at least, until he forgot what being cold even felt like.  

He opened his mouth to say something about it, how shared body heat was the best cure for a cold-blooded Vulcan, but the rickety shudder of Sam’s breathing sliced through Jim’s intent quicker and crueler than a phaser beam. There was no way Jim could flirt with Spock in front of Sam, who wasn’t in the right place for that, for one thing—and wouldn’t understand any of Jim’s reasons, for another.

Sam didn’t have to feel guilty for a situation Jim still couldn’t explain. Maybe, on the outside, it seemed crazy, dangerous, desperate, but there was more to Spock than Jim had been expecting to find. What had begun as a last-ditch ploy to save Sam’s life, with Jim making the choice to surrender his autonomy to bust Sam free, had turned into something more.

The Bird-of-Prey was like a metaphor of that: an unexpected bonus, an advantage Jim hadn’t been aiming to grab but managed to snag along the way. Now he was piloting the damn thing and it could change everything.

The border of the Hostile Zone stretched out before Jim on the display, the only thing standing between them and home ground for the coming escalation of certain war.

‘I’m good, by the way,’ Jim said. ‘Focused. Hey, have I let you down even _once_ so far?’

Obviously, Spock didn’t feel the need to answer that. He let the question linger, but the fact that they were still alive and still flying was proof that Spock had no complaints with the way Jim was handling the pilot’s seat.

He could have wrangled a conversation with Sam if Spock hadn’t been there; he might have been able to spark some kind of dialogue with Spock if Sam had been a little more or a little less conscious.

So much for reunions.

There was something reassuring about the sensor display, which represented every indicator of what was and wasn’t out there, plotted on a definite grid. Now and then, at irregular intervals, a red blip would appear along the borders of the Zone, signaling an Alliance ship decloaking to fire, recloaking almost instantaneously after. Jim drummed his fingers on the dashboard.

He was itching for one of those patrol ships to decloak in front of them, give him something to do, someone to fight. Lighting up the darkness with fire wasn’t the worst way to spend the next hour; anything was better than Sam’s arrhythmic breathing interrupting the otherwise suffocating silence.

Nothing presented itself. The threat against them remained itchy and unsatisfying, nothing more than unfulfilled potential, and even Jim had to admit, given his still-rudimentary understanding of the ship’s controls, it was probably for the best that boredom was his loudest companion.

They crossed the border with only a shudder in the shadows Sam wore to commemorate the occasion.

Jim was starting to miss the noise of the Klingon crowds, even the hidden steel in a Romulan senator’s smile, the creative thinking it took to have fun with a collar tightening around your neck. He whistled to make some new noise, regretting it when Sam skipped a breath and froze.

‘You shouldn’t have done it,’ Sam said.

Jim wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it. Sam’s dry voice softer than the hum of the engines.

‘Yeah, I suck at whistling,’ Jim replied, licking his lips. It hadn’t been what Sam meant and everyone—even Spock, who had just met him—knew it.

‘No, Jim,’ Sam said.

‘You know me. Caution to the wind.’ Jim rubbed his jaw to loosen the natural clench that had been happening there of late. ‘Saw an opportunity to have some fun and I just had to take it. I was getting bored with all the regular assassination attempts back at court, so I figured I’d take myself to where the action was, instead of waiting for it to come to me.’

‘ _No_ , Jim,’ Sam repeated.

This time, it was a plea more than anything else.

A good person might have let it stick, given Sam a victory he probably needed. They were trapped together in this fancy tin can until further notice, and since Romulans didn’t seem to understand even the basics about human comfort, there was nowhere for anyone to escape to for a little privacy, some breathing room. If the conversation got awkward, it was going to stay awkward until further notice.

And if Jim couldn’t flirt with Spock in front of Sam, then by the same token it was probably rude to air out his dirty family laundry in front of an audience.

It was too late to fix that now. He was trapped in the middle and the only way out was to go through.

‘Listen,’ Jim said, with the tone of someone who wasn’t in the mood to repeat himself, ‘I don’t know what kind of crazy ideas you’ve got going on in your head right now, but don’t get a complex about it. I didn’t do this for you. I mean, do you know what happens to  _me_  if you’re not around? I bet you didn’t even think about it. Well, it’d mean the end of my free time in perpetuity.  _Forever,_ basically. No Starfleet, no hoverbike, no nothing. Just commanding our troops from a remote location and taking over from Mom’s version of diplomacy when she gets sick of explaining the rules to the newest members of our little Empire family. No  _thank_ you. There was no way I was gonna let that happen to me.’

It was an inspired speech, if mostly improvised.

None of it was untrue, not exactly.

Second sons had to make names for themselves somehow. In the Empire, if you didn’t develop a reputation for being dangerous and fast, people tended to get the wrong idea. Ever since the Alliance formed and the other races had started fighting back against Terran incursions, it was more important than ever to put up a show of strength.

Spock didn’t make a sound. For once, that pain-in-the-ass tendency of his not to join a conversation might actually prove useful. If he could have, he probably would have receded into the shadows and become one with them in some kind of Vulcan privacy-meld.

Sam breathed out in a huff. Leaving the Hostile Zone had taken a weight off his shoulders, but Jim knew his brother better than that. The damage was done.

‘You really think what you’ve rescued can handle anything on that list?’ Sam asked.

‘Don’t be such a downer,’ Jim replied. ‘Not in front of the Vulcan.’

He knew what Sam had meant even before he’d said it: that whatever Jim had whisked out of the Romulan prison was no longer worth saving. But Jim wasn’t going to accept that as the truth. Sam’s perspective was skewed, but healing was a thing humans did. Jim’s scars were proof enough of that.

Jim was in charge on the ship and if he didn't accept something as the truth, then it wasn’t. Simple as that.

Or complicated as that.

‘The half-Vulcan,’ Jim added, another coin tossed into the well of silence. It was a good line; Jim was going to have to remember it. ‘He still counts.’

‘I’m not who you think I am,’ Sam said.

‘Maybe you’re not who you think you are,’ Jim replied. ‘Did you ever think of that?’

He couldn’t look at Sam to see if the line hit home; he was too pissed off for that. Sometimes you went out of your way to rescue somebody and it turned out he wanted to stay un-rescued. No thanks; no talk about how much they missed you; no nod to how lonely they’d been, how grateful they were to be free. Apparently Sam was the same as any other human: he got used to a kind of fear and he began to rely on it.

Jim couldn’t live like that. He used to think Sam couldn’t live like it, either, but there was a lot he never knew about Sam because he’d never been in the right situation to learn who Sam was—and also who Sam wasn’t.

 _Meditation would prove useful at such a juncture_. Spock’s calm, matter-of-fact incursion into Jim’s thoughts made him twitch like Sam kept doing, regularly checking over his shoulder like he wanted somebody to grab him and throw him back in his cell, just to get the waiting part over with.

‘Nah, you know what?’ Jim was done with keeping things quiet for the sake of somebody who didn’t want to appreciate the gesture. ‘I don’t think so. You looking for some kind of punishment, Sam, is that it?’ He turned at last, facing Sam for the first time since they’d been reunited—although Jim wasn’t exactly thrilled with calling it a reunion. It didn’t feel like one. Sam’s shoulders were hunched and his hair was long and Jim hated that stupid beard, but also the fact that Sam’s first instinct wasn’t to shave it off and look at himself in the mirror and remember who he was. Jim didn’t need the fingers of one hand to count all the people in the galaxy he liked. Sam was always the first on the list, and he knew it, and it still wasn’t enough to make him care.

Jim stood; his shadow fell over Sam, adding to the collection he had already accumulated, the ones he was wearing like it was darkness that could protect him, not light; like if he made himself feel small enough, he wouldn’t be seen.

‘Oh my God,’ Jim said, the words coming out more bitterly than he’d expected, and he was feeling plenty bitter already. ‘You can’t even look at me, can you?’

‘Now is not an ideal time to confront these personal matters,’ Spock interrupted. He did it as mildly as possible, so Jim waved him off instead of trying to punch him to shut up him.

‘You know what, Spock? There’s _never_ a good time to tell your brother he’s one hell of a coward.’ There they were, the ugliest words in the galaxy. Jim spat them out like a loose tooth; it was a relief to have them in the open, because relief was never a pleasant thing. More often than not it was messy and mean, a wound you had to acknowledge before it could start healing. ‘So instead of waiting for the right moment, I guess I’d better take _any_ moment. You think it wasn’t torture for _me_ not knowing whether you were dead or alive, Sam? Maybe you wish it was the former, but it’s _not_. You’re here with me, not with Dad, so you’d better accept it. I’m not handing you back to the Romulans, so you can quit hoping for that to happen, while you’re at it.’

Sam flinched under the onslaught, but just like Jim thought, he didn’t retreat. He was stronger than he realized, stronger than he wanted. He was strong enough to handle all the shit he’d been given, when being too weak for it would have been a hell of a lot easier.

‘Anyway,’ Jim finished roughly, ‘I’ve got a ship to pilot.’

‘Well,’ Sam replied, ‘you always did have a better way with ships than with people.’

His voice was thin but unmistakable. If it was loud enough for Jim to hear, then Spock’s superior auditory capabilities were bound to catch it too. He might not have been listening on purpose, but that didn’t much matter in the face of everything they had already said to one another.

‘No kidding. Just look where being a people person got you,’ Jim said.

Getting the last word didn’t do anything to make him feel better. The creak of the leather chair under his ass punctuated their argument in a way Jim couldn’t. He had a job to do—and if he focused on that rather than anything else, then at least he wouldn’t be picking at a bloody scab so it couldn’t heal over.

He’d already burned his bridges as far as relating to Sam was concerned. He was going to have to bide his time until another chance to relate came along. Plus, he’d probably pissed off Spock by giving into his baser instincts and not backing down when he still could have, before he’d gone too far.

Romulan ship computers didn’t seem to have any pleasant AIs for him to tick off, so he was two for two on killing the conversation dead.

He could still tell himself that he wasn’t looking for distractions and pointless busy work. Someone had to get them home in one piece. Jim might have been a pain in the ass, but he could sulk and handle piloting the course home at the same time.

When he tried to sense what Spock was thinking through their shared connection, it was like pushing against a heavy curtain: soft resistance with nothing but darkness behind it.

 _So you’re not talking to me either?_ Jim tried.

But there was no reply. He probably should have expected that.

So much for a hero’s welcome.

*


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Homecoming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amazing art by pixiepunch on tumblr!

Spock did not ascribe to the human description of time as unequivocally relative, its measurements based upon the quality of the activities in which one was taking part. The trip from the edge of the Hostile Zone to Vulcan would encompass no less than six hours, forty-three minutes and twelve seconds if they were not delayed, but even in the absence thereof, the trip did feel longer.

Despite the illogic inherent in it, the feeling persisted. It could not be attributed to the healing trance Spock had undertaken on and off throughout the voyage. He intended to stand and walk without assistance when they returned to his home planet; the damage done to the back of his leg was worse than that of his shoulder and required greater attention to its recuperation.

Though the display of emotionalism offered by Jim and his brother had been distasteful at best, in the absence of such excitement, there was only meditation. Spock was aware of the passage of time, but it was formless when cocooned by the steady rhythm of his own breathing. Tortured flesh scabbed and scarred along the back of his calf, on the inside of his knee, and by the time Spock was aware of fresh restlessness from Jim’s direction, he was able to move the limb in question, albeit with some lingering stiffness that spoke of a silent, persistent pain.

‘No wood on these babies,’ Jim said, coughing to clear his throat and rapping his knuckles on the dashboard, ‘so I can’t knock on it, but if you wanna see home through the viewfinder, Spock… Now’s about the time to do it.’

Jim had known that Spock had resurfaced from the depths of his trance, attuned as he was to the internal changes of Spock’s consciousness as well as external movement.

Spock confirmed that what Jim said was true. The red sands of Vulcan were visible; their approach would be considered a hostile one if Spock did not open a hailing frequency and impart the chain of secret codes necessary for his private guard to stand down, sufficiently assured that it was their prince returning and not an impostor. He did so in silence, punching the chain of codes in their proper sequences, the numbers straightforward and without complication. All that they had ever required of him was memorization.

In the pilot’s seat, Jim mouthed the letters and numbers as Spock typed them. The corner of his mouth snared on a tight grin when Spock concluded the final sequence and no hostile fire targeted them from the planet below.

‘I was almost looking forward to the extra recreation, too.’ Jim cracked his knuckles; he stood and stretched his arms over his head, flexing the muscles in his shoulders stubbornly against each protest and twinge; he even twisted from one side to the other and scratched his belly below a rip in his shirt, which had risen above the navel. ‘Figured you might have another little test in store for me—see if I’m as good at evasive maneuvers _after_ a long flight. Keep me on my toes.’

_When we both know_ , Jim added privately, _that I’d rather you have me on my back. Or my stomach. I’m flexible, but then, you already knew that about me._

The flirtations came with a hard edge, and there was more behind it than simple, restless energy, Jim’s limbs seeking release from the cramped position they had endured for over six hours.

He had not once looked upon his brother. His motivations were complex enough that Spock did not attempt to untwist and untangle them, knot from knot; instead, the mystery remained at the periphery of his attention, a thorny patch that would be dealt with later.

As it interfered with Jim’s performance, it would have to be.

‘I’m guessing they won’t be rolling out the red carpet and a welcome-home parade,’ Jim said. ‘You guys don’t strike me as big on confetti—and throwing sand in each other’s faces doesn’t count.’

‘If you intend to commence landing procedures,’ Spock replied, ‘now would be the appropriate juncture at which to do so.’

Jim huffed and bent over the dashboard, body obscuring the dim glow from its controls. ‘Bossy,’ he muttered.

He did not grin to punctuate the statement, or arch his back with the same purpose. George Samuel remained, head bowed, mouthing unfamiliar words under his breath. Spock wagered no guess as to what he was saying. It made no difference what comforted him, for Spock trusted the laws of physics and Vulcan’s distinct gravity.

The air-pressure shifted as they began their invisible descent. On Spock’s private signal, the hangar door to his personal docking bay opened, then closed overhead. The floor trembled beneath them as Jim decloaked, patting the dashboard like a man did for a dog, as though it required the confirmation of a job well done.

Spock moved quickly, straightening his clothes and hair, adjusting his posture by the necessary, minute increments. Their reception would be swift, but that did not imply it would be simply completed. As a figure of authority, the burden would fall upon Spock to answer the thorough questions his advisors would have.

The true nature of his alliance with Jim had not been made public, just as Jim’s status had remained secret. There would be misunderstandings on that topic as well, now that Spock had returned with _Prince_ George Samuel in tow.

In order to limit their notoriety, images of the Terran Empire’s top authorities and royal family were not widely circulated; this applied to Vulcan, as even with a treaty in place, humans did not trust any but their own kind. The same could often be said of Vulcans.

Their stolen Bird-of-Prey carried with it not only the cloaking technology but a cargo of serious political significance. Whether or not Jim was fully aware of the implications his actions had, landing on Vulcan was an act of considerable trust.

Spock intended to repay him in kind.

‘We’re on Vulcan,’ George Samuel said.

Though they shared no deeper bond, it had become evident to Spock that Jim’s older brother shared Jim’s keen intuition. As he was a man of few words, it was significant that he would bring attention to something so obvious. George Samuel, too, seemed aware of the tenuous nature of their position. As with Jim, it was not his choice of words that was most revelatory, but that he had chosen to speak at all.

‘Yeah,’ Jim replied. ‘You’ve been pretty quick to note we’re traveling with a Vulcan, Sam. Half-Vulcan. Now you know: we’re not running away to Earth together.

George Samuel’s thin chest rose and fell beneath his worn, gray jacket. He appeared subdued, but there was turmoil beneath that surface as he struggled to reply.

‘So,’ he managed at length. ‘My rescue plan has a detour.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Jim said. ‘Everybody’s getting home in one piece. Isn’t that right, Spock?’

He popped the hatch that would lower the landing deck, filtering bright sunlight and welcome heat into the cockpit of the Bird-of-Prey. Spock was drawn toward it, and to the duty that he knew awaited him below.

He had not previously discussed the realities of their situation with Jim because neither of them had known whether they would be able to secure George Samuel’s release from the Romulans. Now that they had, there were no provisional treaties in place by which to abide. They had not conferred upon and secured any agreements regarding how to share the results of their success.

‘Why the long face?’ Jim asked. He had lowered the hatch but he had not moved to debark; though he did not regularly honor protocol and indeed seemed to buck its harness whenever possible, he was capable of recognizing that on Spock’s native soil, it was imperative that Spock be seen as the leader he was. It was strategy, not protocol, that Jim respected. ‘You think we won’t be able to figure it all out—with you in my head and me in yours?’

‘The political climate has always been complex,’ Spock replied.

‘You don’t have to tell me.’

‘Our actions have served only to complicate it further,’ Spock continued.

‘What can I say? I’m a complex guy.’

Jim glanced to Spock and Spock allowed their eyes to meet. Jim’s brows were heavy. His new scar ran deep. The mark that his brother’s silence had left upon him was more obvious than that which he wore on his face, given to him by the swipe of a Gorn’s brutal claws.

‘I will confer with my people,’ Spock said. That Jim would not have a place at such a conference was implicit; that Jim would nevertheless remain abreast of the topics also went without saying.

‘How about that, Sam?’ Jim pulled back, looping a stiff arm around his brother’s waist as he allowed Spock to disembark first and lead the way. ‘I got you out of a Romulan prison only to get you _into_ something like a Vulcan one. But they treat you all right here, at least when you make it worth their while. No chains unless you ask for ‘em. You’ll even get your very own bed. You gotta admit, I do good work.’

Sam gave no reply.

The sunlight fell over them, and duty overtook Jim’s hard-edged words of deflection.

Jim and George Samuel were taken into custody at once by Spock’s most trusted guards—but the close watch on them was for the sake of their safety as much as it was for the safety of Vulcan. They would not be harmed while they were under Spock’s protection, even if Spock was not present to personally assure their wellbeing.

Alone, Spock debriefed the Vulcan High Council, standing before the elders, who wore their disapproval in the same shadows as their approval, hidden in the folds of their cowls, as silent as the fall of cloth on cloth. Their wisdom outweighed their rage. When he had been younger, they had reminded him of a row of dormant volcanoes, and he was again struck by the resemblance, though he was young no longer.

A new treaty and its revised terms would be required. The Terran Empire would be in Vulcan’s debt. They would have to stand together, united against any Alliance retaliation that came.

The High Council withdrew to begin their draft of that treaty, which they would submit for Spock’s consideration, while Spock withdrew to a private chamber not on the palace grounds but that he had built in the crags of a neighboring mountain.

There, he meditated. He healed. And he listened to the sounds of Jim in the distance, every twitch of his muscles, every beat of his heart—how he tightened his jaw and rolled his shoulders, the face that he saw in the mirror as he prodded the lines of the scars on his face, still raw.

It was now impossible to deny that Jim was with Spock even as he meditated. From time to time, when Jim grew more restless than usual, he prodded Spock in broad gestures, searching for him, questioning his progress. Spock had kept him updated during the council meeting itself, but he could not allow himself to answer every last one of Jim’s whims.

Besides, the time alone with his brother would benefit Jim at this stage, just as the time alone—or whatever facsimile thereof could be maintained with Jim encroaching on the recesses of his mind—would benefit Spock.

The last time Spock had been truly alone, he had been confined within a cell of the Romulans’ complicated prison network. It had been recent and he did not care to recall the experience, although it was evident to him that he had not suffered as badly as George Samuel. The Romulans had known Jim’s brother on sight, his period of confinement had been lengthy, and he had suffered for it.

Spock, by comparison, had profited from the deception proposed by Jim.

Vulcans did not lie. But a lie had served him well nonetheless.

_Spock._

_Hey, Spock._

_What are you wearing?_

Spock was not inclined to the imaginative indulgences he needed to assume that Jim’s presence had been conjured simply by thoughts of him. Jim had been casting about for the right moment, or indeed any moment at all, to attract Spock’s attention. This latest attempt was only that: another drop in the same insistent flood that had been working against Spock’s mental defenses for the better part of the day.

_Spock. Come on, Spock. I know you’re there. You can’t just leave me alone here with Sam, it’s like being stuck in a room with a dying Cardassian. You ever seen that color on a human being before? Be honest._

_If you are consulting me on matters of human anatomy, I feel compelled to inform you that I am far from an expert._ Spock drew breath through his nose, centering his focus. _Perhaps a physician in the employ of the Empire might offer greater insight._

Jim’s pretense at cynicism did not conceal his true concern for his brother’s well-being. It was not Spock’s duty to inform him of how his ruse had failed, as it was a personal matter that did not affect his current relationship with Jim. Whatever decisions he made regarding his brother’s health were his to make alone. Spock had seen fit to keep Vulcan interests and George Samuel separate for the time being.

Whether it had been Jim’s intention or not, he had emerged as the stronger character of the two. It would be his influence that the treaty depended upon and not George Samuel’s.

_Somebody’s feeling awfully serious._ Jim’s curiosity twined through Spock’s mind like a leather cord to bind his robes.  _I thought you said the meeting went well._

_Nothing has changed,_  Spock confirmed. As there had never been a time when Spock had not been serious with Jim, he could write off the first comment as needless banter, designed to initiate further dialogue.

_That’s a relief._ Spock had given Jim no reason or encouragement to continue; yet he persisted.  _For a second I thought you were gonna say they decided you should keep us around as your slaves. Which is one thing when it’s just you and me, Spock. You know I’m good for it. But if it’s gonna be a family affair— Well, that’d just be weird._

_It is not enough that you do not choose to practice the art of meditation yourself, but you actively seek to disrupt that art when it is practiced by others._

_I’m bored. I don’t like being bored. C’mon, compared to the adventures we were having… You can’t tell me you don’t miss it. All that excitement, all that action—and now I’m cooped up in your chambers again. Only problem is, you’re not here to entertain me._

_Face that which you seek to avoid_ , Spock suggested. He gave firm encouragement for Jim to disengage and, after a moment’s lingering pause, Jim left only silence in his place.

It was not an unwise tactic, as Spock had grown accustomed to the interruptions, so that silence itself provided more of a disruptive effect, rather than less. He turned his hands over on his thighs, palms up, and cleared the channels between his head and his heart, which even Jim knew was close to his gut.

Not all was in perfect order, but they had returned, and it was a beginning.

I-Chaya met Spock outside the simple door to his meditation chamber when he had finished. Spock stood beside him as night fell, the two of them observing the same stains of sunset on the horizon, side by side as they had since Spock’s childhood. Spock awaited the inevitable interruption from Jim—only to be confronted with the fact that it had not come.

Jim was not in danger; Spock would have known it if he was, so that did not explain his continued silence. Perhaps he had at last learned his lesson: that in order to draw attention, the absence of a demand was far more effective than any obvious and unskillful clamor.

I-Chaya escorted Spock back to his chambers, old and proud, his wisdom equal to his bravery. He scented the same unfamiliar, human smells on Spock as he did within Spock’s rooms and the gaze he turned on Spock was one of ultimate disinterest.

‘You are dismissed, I-Chaya,’ Spock told him.

The door opened, and Spock entered. I-Chaya obeyed, and did not follow.

Jim was not immediately visible within. He was instead with George Samuel, who had chosen to retire into Spock’s study; when Spock stepped inside, George Samuel was neither fully asleep nor fully awake, having eschewed seating on any number of chairs and couches in favor of settling on the floor. He had his knees drawn to his chest, his back against the wall. It was not a position of great advantage, but it did allow George Samuel the certainty that no one would be able to sneak up behind him. From this, Spock saw that he preferred to be trapped than to be surprised by the many unstable elements of freedom.

Jim, by contrast, stood before one of the windows, his hands gripping the sill. He did not turn around for Spock’s sake; when he did turn, his attention settled on George Samuel, before he snorted and ran his fingers through his hair.

‘As you can see,’ he said, ‘we didn’t start any kind of party without you. Still, if I’d known you were coming, I would’ve been ready with more of a welcome.’

‘He will be safe here on his own, if you would prefer to spend your time without his company,’ Spock replied.

‘Shows what you know about family.’ Jim crossed his arms over his chest, jaw set in a hard line, hooking one ankle over the other as he leaned back against the windowsill. ‘“Face that which you seek to avoid”, right? Or in this case, it’s more like face that which seeks to avoid _me_.’

‘I am not avoiding you,’ George Samuel said.

As there was nothing left in Spock’s study but the opportunity to observe another conversation similar to the one-sided argument to which Spock had already been made privy, and against his will, Spock left them to one another’s uninterrupted company. He took a simple meal alone and retired to his innermost chamber, where his bed awaited him.

That was not all.

Jim was sitting on the bed, but not in his usual position. He did not lounge, as was his preferred posture; his shirtless chest was concealed by the pillows and blankets, rather than artfully revealed and framed by the same. When he looked up, he seemed startled to find Spock within his own room, although his surprise may have been related to the fact that he had not sensed Spock’s presence in advance of his arrival.

Their bond was not so developed that he could afford to neglect it.

The many distractions of George Samuel’s presence were having more of an effect on him than Jim cared to admit.

‘Uh.’ Jim clutched the pillows tighter to his chest. ‘I was just putting together sleeping arrangements for The Ghost of Christmas Past out there.’

‘I do not understand the reference,’ Spock said, ‘but you are welcome to anything that is required for the comfort of your brother, Prince George Samuel.’

Jim licked his teeth, drawing his lips back in something that resembled a grimace. Spock could respect that he would not attempt to gloss over his discomfort, as Jim’s earlier efforts to conceal his true feelings on the subject of his brother’s kidnapping had been unfathomable to Spock.

‘I know who my brother is, Spock.’

‘I spoke not as a reminder, but as a reference to his proper title.’

As Jim had not made any move to rise, Spock remained standing, hands locked in their familiar position behind his back. It was true that suitable quarters should have been afforded the two princes of the Terran Empire as soon as their identities were revealed and confirmed, but to place them in a position of prominence would have drawn attention as well as assassins.

Concealed within Spock’s private chambers, at least, they had only to worry about the attempts on Spock’s own life. He suspected that, if only for a brief period of respite, those attempts would wane, as the Alliance sought to strengthen its defenses and mitigate its losses. They would no doubt seek to understand how the Romulans had lost a prisoner of such strategic value from the heart of their home planet; there would follow a period of infighting, as one side blamed the other for the breach, which would weaken the tenuous partnership the Klingons and the Romulans had managed to build.

The Alliance had not been dealt a fatal blow, but the spreading of dissent could prove equally as valuable as an armed strike. The Vulcan High Council would, in the days to come, seek to predict the outcome of their actions, but that was not a task for Spock to undertake just now.

‘Your brother’s sleeping arrangements,’ Spock said, as a point of reminder.  

‘Maybe I gave up thinking about his and want to focus more on my own,’ Jim replied. He twisted a pillow’s tassel between his thumb and forefinger, gripping it too tight before it fell from his grasp. He had not intended to hold onto it for long; Spock did not believe him so careless with anything of which he wished to remain in possession. ‘I bet he talks in his sleep now, and there’s no way I’m sleeping out there with that. It’d be creepy.’

‘It is rare that a plan is so successfully executed that what one gains outweighs that which one has lost,’ Spock pointed out.

‘And you’re thinking I’m acting illogical ‘cause what I went into this for is sitting out there and I’m staying far away from it, is that the deal?’

‘“The deal”,’ Spock repeated.

Jim twisted again at his favored tassel, his blunt, strong fingers graceful despite their power, though only in brief and uncalculated moments.

‘Not _our_ deal.’ Jim waved his hand. ‘I meant the general deal. One of ‘em, anyway. Are you gonna come over here and touch me like we couldn’t when we were on that Romulan ship, or are you gonna _finally_ make me get on my knees and beg?’

‘With your brother in the next room, it is hardly appropriate to engage in an act the likes of which you are suggesting,’ Spock said.

Jim snorted. ‘Like he cares. He’s not even all there. I bet he wouldn’t notice.’

‘If it is your intent to test him,’ Spock said, ‘I will not comply.’

‘Like it or not, Spock, you’re already entangled in the Kirk family business. There’s no getting out of it now.’ Jim patted a pillow; whether he was fluffing it for general comfort or beckoning Spock to sit beside him was unclear, due in part to Jim’s own confusion on the matter.

He did not know what it was that Jim wanted—and as such, Spock would not provide that which was general, rather than specific.

In point of fact, Spock had come to understand that he was not without his own wants, and that those wants had narrowed in focus to center upon Jim: half naked on Spock’s bed, half buried beneath a collection of pillows he had gathered from all the connected chambers, having rearranged Spock’s organization into a localized chaos. It was not an unfamiliar occurrence. Jim had done it often before. Spock held his hands behind his back, his posture unflinching. The scar on the side of Jim’s face had not changed Jim’s face; it had tried, and it had failed. The features themselves remained the same as they had been, and they were handsome indeed, in part because of their aesthetic properties, but also because of the individual to whom they belonged. They spoke of who Jim was.

‘You got shot, too,’ Jim added. He made the crude shape of a phaser with his thumb and forefinger. ‘ _Pew._ Injured in the line of fire. What if I wanna kiss it and make it better?’

‘The wound in question has already healed.’

‘Yeah, and I’ve got a dirty mouth, so it’s not like I was being literal.’ Jim’s frustration had begun to mount; he swiped his tongue along his bottom lip not in invitation, but in frustration. ‘I’m a prince, not a doctor. You’re seriously just gonna stand there?’

‘The view is not without its points of interest.’

Jim’s mouth opened, then fell shut. He let his head loll to the side, observing Spock from a new angle after two full seconds’ worth of blank pause.

‘“Not without its points of interest”,’ Jim said. When Spock refused to confirm that which had already been repeated, he leaned forward, braced on one hand, the pillows and the blankets falling away from him down his chest. ‘Now you _have_ to get over here.’

It would have been prudent, Spock reflected, to take that moment to remind Jim that they were within the confines of Spock’s palatial estate, specifically within his bedchamber, with his guards standing outside the door. He was not compelled to do anything. He understood that was not what Jim had implied—he was not often literal in his speech, to the point where many of his references and intentions were lost on Spock—but if he did not outright refuse, Spock would instead cultivate Jim’s favored banter. 

Both choices had their appeals.

However, there was still George Samuel to consider; he remained that which Jim would not give his attention. This made it all the more critical for Spock to be aware of the possible outcomes and downfalls of leaving the heir to the Terran Empire alone.

George Samuel had been alone before. It was obvious he would have preferred to remain so. The isolation would not harm him, but that was only one of several factors to take into consideration.

‘I am comfortable here,’ Spock said.

Jim’s eyes narrowed. He pursed his lips, then flattened himself against Spock’s bed, stretching out like a domesticated sehlat in his makeshift nest of borrowed pillows and blankets.

‘All right,’ he said. There was a false insouciance in his voice, betrayed by the overwhelming interest he had displayed earlier in having Spock at his side. ‘Fine. I was just trying to be considerate, you know. Keep our voices from carrying while we should across the room at each other. Sensitive Vulcan ears, and all.’

Jim had never once in his life attempted discretion where a loud commotion could be provided. It was not the Vulcan guards overhearing that concerned him, but George Samuel.

Spock watched Jim watch the ceiling. Jim’s chest rose and fell. He did not look at Spock, but he lifted a hand to rub the scars against his face, as if sensing Spock’s scrutiny, choosing to counter it with scrutiny of his own.

It was then that Spock allowed himself to move, taking a seat at the edge of the bed, a position furthest from Jim.

He was not troubled by Jim’s presence, as Jim was not taking up space that Spock required in order to undertake his nightly restful meditation. If he wished it, he could easily circumvent Jim’s stubbornness.

Therefore, it was his choice to allow Jim to interrupt his routine. If they truly sought to strengthen the alliance between their two empires, then it depended on them to set the example by continuing to work together.

There was no longer any need for Spock to reach out to Jim—and yet Spock found himself compelled by something beyond the urge to slip into a sleep trance.

His earlier period of meditation had provided enough respite that anything more would have arguably been gratuitous for an individual of Spock’s stamina. Though they had just returned from a mission that had not allowed them ample recuperative intervals, and some would have deemed the stressors of that mission significant enough to demand extra attention to rest, Spock required nothing further.

What Jim required was less obvious.

He was as weary as he was restless. He was also as aware as ever of the space Spock occupied, how close he had come, and how he had refused to close the last measure of distance, leaving an empty stretch between them that had yet to be crossed. Jim ran his palm over the curve of a pillow, stroking it idly, though his idleness was not without purpose. He sought to draw Spock’s attention to his hands, and in that endeavor, he was not unsuccessful.

There was more to his restive behavior than met the eye. Spock reached forward and gripped Jim’s wrist, stilling the motions of his fingers, pinning his arm in place.

‘Some people just shake on a job well done, you know,’ Jim said. Spock waited. ‘…But you’re not some people. Obviously. Did you change your mind about letting me kiss it and make it better?’

‘I am not in need of healing,’ Spock replied.

‘Yeah,’ Jim agreed. ‘No scars on _you_.’

That had indeed been what Spock meant. Though Jim could not often read him, he was able to understand, a rare skill that required dedication and practice. Jim possessed both.

With his free hand, Spock traced the lines the Gorn had left behind on Jim’s face with his knuckles, not yet choosing to let his fingertips rest on the marred and sensitive flesh. The scar was still young; the nerves had yet to deaden, leaving the surrounding skin more sensitive to compensate for the lack of sensation they encompassed.

‘I’m starting to like it,’ Jim added. ‘Gives me a certain something. Kind of like you want to know what happened to the other guy and kind of like you already do. ‘Cause if I look like this, it can’t be pretty.’

Spock removed his hand, Jim leaning after it by canting forward, his lips pursed.

‘Here’s the thing, Spock,’ Jim said. ‘People, _humans_ specifically, tend to want things until they get ‘em. Then, they start wanting something else.’

‘Are you referring to the state of affairs with your brother, or to a potential method for disengaging your interest in me?’ Spock asked.

This time, when Jim snorted, his breath gusted hot along Spock’s jaw and throat. ‘I was just saying. You think it’s time to disengage, huh?’

‘I did not say as much.’

‘Uh-huh, Spock. But what you _do_ say, you don’t always follow up on, either. The view’s not without its points of interest; you’re comfortable where you are. And now you’re here, but you’re only touching the parts of me that don’t feel anything. So what’s that say about you?’

‘If you do not know what it is that you desire,’ Spock said, ‘then it is not possible for you to desire me.’

Jim almost laughed. ‘Now I _know_ you’ve got a sense of humor, ‘cause that _had_ to be a joke.’

Spock did not confirm that which was obviously false. Jim’s laughter dried, his eyes hidden as he bowed his head, though he was unable to hide anything else. Not from Spock.

‘You’ve got a lot to learn about humans, anyway,’ Jim said.

‘I have not avoided my studies on the subject,’ Spock replied.

‘Not like I’m avoiding Sam out there, you mean.’

‘I would not couch my meaning in innuendo as some prefer.’ Spock released his grip on Jim’s wrist, leaving Jim to rub the skin where Spock’s fingers had tightened over his pulse. Spock could still feel its rhythm in his fingerprints.

‘Whatever,’ Jim said, rolling free. A shower of bedclothes left the bed along with him, piled on the floor by his feet. ‘I’ll go have some family bonding time. But one of these days, Spock, you’re gonna run out of excuses.’

‘I will be here,’ Spock replied, ‘when you have finished.’

Jim’s breath caught in his throat, but he did not grin on his way out.

*


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A cure for nightmares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quintotriticale on tumblr drew and INSANELY HOT Jim with his Gorn scars:

This Sam thing was going to be a problem.

Jim hadn’t worked out how, exactly, which meant that he also couldn’t start working on how to deal with it. And Spock—that charmer—was blocking him out in every sense of the word until Jim had his head on straight. Since he was the one guy who could actually see inside his mind, Jim couldn’t bluff his way out of it.

Spock wouldn’t even do the decent thing and give him a distraction. Every time Jim tried, both in real life and through their bond, it was like coming up against a solid wall, and it wasn’t the kind Jim could climb.

That didn’t mean he couldn’t tear it down piece by piece. He had fought a Gorn, after all. But between being shut out on one side and the added burden of Sam wearing at his defenses on the other, Jim didn’t have much energy to throw into losing battles.

The truth was, he might have doomed himself to everything he’d told Sam he was trying to avoid on the ride home. Neither of them had gotten into it since then, but whether Sam was going to be able to perform his duties at all was still up in the air. Or any kind of duties, beyond sitting with his back to a wall, reciting starship class designations and their crews in descending order of importance as a coping mechanism.

Winona wasn’t going to know what to do with him.

_Jim_ barely knew what to do with him, and he didn’t appreciate Spock making him confront it like he all of a sudden knew what was best for the Kirk family just because he’d won Jim over.

Because he couldn’t talk to Sam, Jim started small. The multi-level chessboard Spock had brought him in captivity was on one of the tables in what passed for his living room. Jim picked it up and hauled it over, setting it on the floor next to Sam, turning the board so that he could take the first move. Not because Jim thought Sam needed the advantage, but because apparently it had been awhile since he’d made the decision to do anything for himself.

Even the rescue had been him being dragged from one place to the next.

Jim wasn’t about to feel guilty for that, but he could try and stave off some of the damage.

‘First time Spock and I fought together was in this room.’ Jim crossed his legs under him, trying to make himself comfortable while he waited for Sam to stop muttering and do something. Somehow, Vulcan floors were harder than floors anywhere else. ‘Couple assassins came in through the window. Guess they scaled the wall.’

Sam’s eyes flicked to the curtains, like it hadn’t occurred to him how many vulnerable points there were, even at the heart of Vulcan’s secured facilities.

‘Yeah, it’s a weak point in the architecture. After all, it’s how I got in, too.’ Jim shifted positions a few times before he managed to find one—leaning on his elbow, one knee bent—that suited him. ‘But that’s the point. Build an obvious flaw and you always know which direction your enemies are going to come from. Not that I’m saying it was easy, but I guess Spock never had to worry about that stuff, what with his Vulcan strength and all. Plus, the guards are pretty loyal to the guy. They hear a commotion, they come running.’

Sam didn’t relax.

Jim hadn’t expected him to.

All his training with Spock had given him plenty of experience in carrying on a one-sided conversation. Besides, Jim never had a problem with hearing the sound of his own voice. It would have been nice if Sam decided to join him instead of starting his list of starships in the fleet over again from the top, but since when had anything in Jim’s life been nice?

There was Spock, obviously—only ‘nice’ didn’t even begin to cover him.

Jim’s stomach rumbled.

‘I fought a few of them, come to think of it,’ Jim continued, poking the backs of his teeth with the tip of his tongue. ‘Seems like ages ago now, but it was all a part of my training to be ready for the Klingon fights. You heard about those?’

Silence.

Jim clenched his jaw against a surge of frustration and anger. It wasn’t meditation, but it got the job done. Jim had snapped at Sam once before and he wasn’t proud of it. They were things Sam needed to hear, just not at that time, and not in that way. If anything, they had made Sam withdraw further instead of snapping him out of it.

‘Fought a Gorn, too. Not that I did it alone; I was the guy distracting the big thing for Spock, but since I’m the one with the scar, I figure I get to be the one with most of the glory. You think Mom’s gonna be angry when she sees it, Sam?’

Sam opened his mouth. He was about to say ‘Class 3 Neutron Fuel Carrier’, and Jim didn’t need to have a mind-meld going to know that.

‘I’m hoping she’ll be so damn happy to see you that she’ll be too distracted to get on me about it,’ Jim said quickly, before Sam could disappoint him. ‘And by the time she’s calmed down from all that joy and happiness, I’ll be able to make her see it’s actually a good thing. Anytime our enemies see me, they’ll have to think twice before trying anything. Won’t be so bad to have that kind of a reputation.’

‘Class 4 Stardrive Vessel’ was on the tip of Sam’s tongue.

‘Jesus,’ Jim muttered. ‘What the hell did they do to you in there, Sam?’

‘Kelvin type,’ Sam replied.

Jim sank lower to the floor. ‘Uh-huh. That’s great, Sam. Just great.’

‘It’s always been my favorite,’ Sam added, almost like he was actually interacting with Jim. Jim sat up again, not too fast. He didn’t want to scare Sam off from real progress. ‘I thought about it—what it’d be like to captain one of those. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized, I’m not captain material. Maybe a first officer, or a lieutenant. Helmsman, even. That wouldn’t be too terrible.’

‘Dream big, Sam,’ Jim said.

He didn’t know what else to say.

Not knowing how to talk to his brother had never been a problem. Sam used to have ideas; Jim used to listen.

‘Besides,’ Sam said, more quietly than before, ‘I’m no damn _good_ at chess, Jim.’

‘Sure you are,’ Jim said.

‘You’ve never played me. I’m terrible.’ Sam’s laugh was worse than his silence somehow. ‘You’re good at it, are you?’

‘You could say that.’ Jim shrugged. Since Sam had been the one to bring it up, he didn’t feel the need to rub it in. ‘I’ve beaten Spock more than once.’

Sam lifted his eyebrows; they were graying and wild. He had refused to trim his beard, presumably because he didn’t want anything that could cut him coming anywhere near his face. Jim didn’t like that. He needed to stop keeping count of all the little ways in which Sam wasn’t whole anymore and the ways he couldn’t even take care of himself because the Romulans had done that for him a little too well.

‘You beat a Vulcan at a logic game,’ Sam said. His voice was soft but there was a rasp to it, like grains of sand under Jim’s boots.

‘Half Vulcan.’ Like the distinction meant anything valuable. ‘And chess is nothing—you should see me play  _kal-toh_.’

He wasn’t doing himself any favors by showing off, but he didn’t seem to be able to stop. More than anything he wanted to show Sam that nothing had changed. That there were people who weren’t going to take it easy on him just because he was different now; that it was still possible to be larger than life.

Jim wasn’t somebody to emulate, but he could be a start.

Sam crossed his arms over his knees, tucking his thighs against his chest. He looked between Jim and the board like he couldn’t decide which appealed less to his interests. That was fine. Jim wouldn’t take it personally. One of these days, Sam was going to have to pick something—and Jim could rest confident in the knowledge that he’d been instrumental in restoring the mental well-being of his older-but-littler brother.

‘I wouldn’t have imagined you could sit still long enough to play board games,’ Sam said.

‘Yeah, Spock underestimated me too.’ Jim leaned forward, studying his brother through the tiered levels of the board. ‘That’s how I got him. Turns out I’m more than just a pretty face.’

Sam made a noise under his breath that Jim didn’t have time to take issue with before he was moving, uncurling his posture just enough to gesture at his own face.

‘What’s the story with that, anyway?’ Sam asked. He drew his fingers in haphazard lines over the bridge of his nose.

‘What, my handsome good looks? I always figured I got them from Mom.’

Sam had always been more like Dad, on more counts than one. Maybe that was what he’d spent his months in solitary thinking about: if Dad’s untimely death was something he could inherit, another gift passed on from a father to his older son. Could you inherit bad luck like a square chin, Jim wondered, or was that nothing but wishful thinking?

‘Mom’s the one who taught me how to play chess,’ Jim added. ‘Come on, Sam, make a move.’

‘You’d have to teach me,’ Sam said.

Jim poked a pawn toward Sam’s side of the board. ‘Only if you actually want to learn. You seemed to be having fun with doing the whole starship encyclopedia thing; I wouldn’t want to interrupt or anything.’

Sam’s beard shifted, which Jim figured was the closest thing he would get to wresting a smile out of him for a long time.

‘We could talk about those, if you wanted,’ Jim said. It was an apology for trying to pretend that what Sam was going through was something that could be teased out of him, joked about like a bad habit. ‘Starships. Sometimes, when I had nightmares, I’d go over the classes in my head.’ Jim shrugged. ‘Just to pass the time. Or bore myself to sleep.’

‘I know,’ Sam replied. ‘It always seemed to work.’

‘I was seven.’ Jim couldn’t imagine anyone thinking a seven-year-old’s tactics for chasing off bad dreams were the right idea, but whatever got Sam through the night. ‘And I was a stack of books with legs, Remember? You even called me that yourself.’

‘Daedalus class,’ Sam said.

It took a second, but Jim had it. ‘Early ISS vessel, spherical primary hull. ISS Essex, lost in combat; ISS Horizon, lost in combat.’

‘Stack of books with legs,’ Sam repeated. ‘You know your starships.’

‘And look where it got me.’ _Us_ , a small voice in the back of Jim’s head tried to add, but he stepped on it until it gave up trying to set itself free.

‘You’ve done all right for yourself.’ Sam swallowed; he looked like he was thirsty. Jim could risk getting Sam something he needed and losing the progress he’d made, or risk not getting him something he needed only to confirm his worst fears: that nothing had really changed. ‘Playing chess… With a Vulcan prince.’

‘Half-Vulcan,’ Jim said. ‘You know what, Sam, I’m thirsty; I’m gonna get something to drink. You want anything? Don’t say water. That’s depressing. That’s basic rations. They’ve got this insane fruit here called _sash-savas_ ; a squeeze of that in something carbonated might liven you up a little. Or it’d kill you. The way you look right now, I don’t think you could take it.’

When Jim rose to his feet, Sam withdrew. Jim had been expecting it, but it still sucked to see it happen.

‘Fine, water—but tomorrow, we’ll have tea or something. And while I’m getting it, try to come up with a class that can stump me. Seriously, try it.’

Sam couldn’t; he learned that after he’d taken the water Jim brought him like he was stranded in the desert—which, in a way, he technically was. The Vulcan heat had settled in under Jim’s skin already, the cold temperature settings on the Bird-of-Prey long since forgotten, as though it had been nothing but a wishful dream. And if that had been a dream, then Sam was the reality, holding tight to his empty glass of water while Jim rattled off everything he knew about the NCC-501 Antares like he was the encyclopedia, not Sam.

Eventually, Sam slept. He was an ugly sleeper, twitching like a frightened stray. Jim watched him for a long time, the bad side of his face throbbing until he stopped clenching his jaw.

Spock had said he’d be waiting for Jim when Jim was finished, but he could see now there wasn’t a finish line in sight.

The worst part was knowing, deep down, just how easy it would be for Jim to wash his hands of the whole thing. He could have said that Sam wasn’t his responsibility anymore; that he was a grown man with a living parent—there was nothing Winona couldn’t handle—and leave it at that. Winona didn’t have time to baby anyone any more than Jim did, but at least that was the natural order of things. She had all kinds of instincts that Jim just plain didn’t.

They had never even had a pet growing up, no matter how often he’d begged for a dog. Too much chance for exposure—someone could use it as leverage against him. Jim hadn’t grown up learning how to take care of anything or anyone but himself.

He didn’t know how he could be expected to change now at the drop of a hat.

Except that was the real problem: no one expected Jim to do anything.

Spock certainly hadn’t. And even as Sam had watched him, eyes tracking Jim’s presence in a room the way a dog followed an unpredictable master, he hadn’t expected Jim to take responsibility for him either.

In fact, the only person who had put that weight on Jim’s shoulders was Jim.

That made it impossible to shake.

_Quiet your mind._ Spock’s voice came as a soft suggestion in the back of his head. He sounded distant, even though he was only a room away.

That probably had something to do with the fact that he was meditating, allowing his thoughts and concentration to flow freely, rather than centering on any one thing or form. He had managed to find Jim amidst all that calm and quiet, though.

Either Jim was special, or he was just restless enough that he stood out like one of those Vulcan torches in the sand, blazing all through the dark desert night.

He would take either one.

Jim grinned even though Spock couldn’t see him, sitting up to stretch out the kinks in his spine, one by one.

_Sorry,_ he said.  _Am I disturbing your beauty rest?_

_I am not familiar with that term,_ Spock admitted.

_Yeah, well, there’s no point thinking about it,_ Jim told him.  _You don’t need it. You’re plenty good-looking without any extra help._

_I take it that your brother has retired for the night,_ Spock said.

_Perceptive of you._

_And yet your unrest continues._

_Congratulations, Spock, you’re two for two._

He wanted to clap, but it would have woken Sam. Jim wasn’t being considerate so much as he didn’t want to deal with the drama all over again.

As long as Sam was sleeping, his silence was honest. Twitchy, yeah, but he wouldn’t be able to catch Jim caring too much or not caring enough. There was less to prove to the unconscious—even less to prove to the dead, but they hadn’t come to that yet.

_So, now you’ve met my brother_ , Jim continued. _What’s left of him, anyway. Told you I’d rather the Klingons got him than the Romulans._ All that work—and more than that; stupid heartache, probably senseless desperation, all the marks of somebody who was too human for his own good—that he’d poured into his conversation with Sam, and here Jim was going for the second round with Spock. In this case, at least, he could relish in the hard work, part of a challenge he’d come to appreciate as his own form of meditation. Spock breathed deeply and evenly to order his thoughts—and Jim scaled walls. _Hey, Spock?_

_I am here._

Jim knew that. _You ever gonna tell me about your mom or what?_

Silence. It wasn’t exactly a non-sequitur and Spock knew it, the same way they knew all kinds of things about each other they probably shouldn’t have. Even from the start, they had both been aware of each other’s biggest weaknesses, human as they were. Jim’s weakness was asleep in Spock’s chambers, but Spock’s was still a mystery.

No wonder Spock wasn’t jumping at the chance to let it all hang out.

_You can tell me,_ Jim pointed out, _or you can wait until we get close enough for me to find out. Fair warning, it could happen while I’ve got my hand down your pants—and that’d just be awkward._

_She is safe_ , Spock replied.

Jim waited in case there was more. Nothing came. It was classic Spock, another one of those puzzle games Jim needed to look at from all angles in order to put the pieces together. Maybe Spock really thought he was giving Jim all he needed. Sometimes, safety was what mattered most, and if that was what Spock thought, then he could have been giving Jim a hint about Sam in the process.

Or he was being a secretive bastard and Jim was desperate to read something more into the next-to-nothing he had.

He silenced his chuckle, feeling it rumble in his chest. It was loud enough to make Sam shift and shiver but not loud enough to wake him.

_Jim_ , Spock answered, but without even saying the name Jim knew; the shape of the letters and the sound they made when put together had nothing to do with what Spock was calling him, or how Spock was calling to him.

_You still waiting for me?_

_I am here,_ Spock repeated.

Again, it had nothing to do with words and everything to do with presence, a sense of things, recognition and destruction of distance. The covers under Spock’s body; the open front of his shirt and the cloak around his shoulders, down the angle formed by his parted knees.

There was a velvet throw on one of the uncomfortable couches nearby, something so soft standing out like a sore thumb next to something so hard and unforgiving. Jim snagged it, running his thumb and forefinger across a band of brocade. He tucked Sam in without touching him, which had nothing to do with telepathy and everything to do with how damn delicate Sam was. Chances were Sam had done the same for Jim at some point. When it came to favors, Jim wasn’t going to be in anybody’s debt.

He let himself in to Spock’s bedroom and closed the door behind him.

‘Now I’m here,’ he said.

Spock stood and met him halfway. Jim pressed his face to the side of Spock’s throat as Spock wrapped the dark, hot folds of his cloak around Jim’s shoulders.

‘Missed me, huh?’ Jim couldn’t keep his mouth shut even when it was in his best interests. Sometimes especially then.

But he wasn’t the one who had started things this time. It was Spock—and Spock’s voice in his head, seeking him out, drawing him into his bedroom through sheer force of will.

Put like that, it was pretty sexy. Jim responded to the attention, finally, _finally_. He lifted his hands to grab two fistfuls of Spock’s soft cloak, dragging himself against the rigid shape of his body where it was concealed by his clothes.

Spock’s muscles were coiled tight with the promise of strength and movement. Jim didn’t want to soften him up—he wanted Spock to use that power to their advantage. With Jim, against him, on him.

‘Come on, Spock.’

Jim let his back press to the door, one boot up against the polished titanium alloy, scuffing the metal with the sole. Spock’s palace was a mix of old, traditional touches and newer ones: security measures made to keep the Prince of Vulcan safe from harm. Jim leaned in and snapped his teeth, like a badly-trained animal, holding onto Spock and daring him to make the first move.

First _and_ second, if they were keeping count. Jim could twist himself into as many new shapes as he wanted, but he was still a book with legs at the end of the day.

Spock’s hand was on his throat a second later, like he wasn’t sure he remembered how to kiss someone but he was pretty sure it had something to do with fingers and the area above the neck.

That was what Jim got for getting involved with a Vulcan.

He let go of Spock’s cloak with one hand, lifting it to hold him around the collar and yank their faces closer together. Jim’s own breath bounced back into his face, tangy with the sash-savas he’d been eating.

‘Like this—’ Jim said.

He bit Spock’s lower lip before he kissed him, and got pushed into the door for his efforts. Spock’s mouth over his forced the air from his lungs, winding him before Spock hoisted him up off the floor, using the wall behind them for leverage. For someone who couldn’t exactly be referred to as hot-blooded, Spock felt pretty warm trapped up against him. Jim squirmed and his hand fell against Spock’s side, over the unsteady rhythm of his heart where it beat below his ribcage.

Now  _that_ was more like it.

Spock kissed him back the right way, or at least the human way, mouth on mouth, without leaving any room to breathe. That was how Jim liked it, but it was also how Spock liked it, something Jim learned when pleasure butted against pleasure the same way Jim’s hips pressed into Spock’s. His belt snared and he fumbled with it, the clasp dragging over Spock’s belly as he wrenched it open.

Spock didn’t mind that, either.

Jim followed the scrape of metal with the scrape of his fingernails, raking them through dark hair, pushing his hand below the waistband, where the hair thickened and spread. Spock bucked him into the door again, bumping a half-faded bruise on Jim’s shoulder blade. Jim hissed. His pain was Spock’s pain; they might as well have been one.

Sam was outside, but Sam could stay outside. Jim had left him there on purpose, with a locked door between himself and family: prince-hood and the Terran Empire. Spock’s hands on Jim’s hips pushed him down onto the lean thigh between Jim’s legs, Jim’s balls and Spock’s muscle and leather and more leather. He wasn’t sure if it was his idea or Spock’s when Spock covered Jim’s mouth with the palm of his fee hand, so that every grunt and plea and whimper leaving Jim’s lips spread hot, hot breath between Spock’s fingers and on his fingertips.

And there was plenty of grunting and whimpering.

Spock, on the other hand, maintained a meditative focus. As long as he wasn’t actually meditating, Jim was fine with it. He had to squint to see every twitch of muscle in Spock’s jaw and the fine tremble of his shoulders when Jim swiped the tip of his tongue over Spock’s thumb, then drew it into his mouth and between his teeth.

He sucked it the same way he wanted to suck something else—and from the looks of it, Spock liked it just as much as if it _was_ something else. For Spock’s sake, Jim kept it noisy.

Spock was already as hard as Jim was, neither of them looking to set that feeling free just yet. Ever since they had rolled all over each other in the sand, sparring almost like they were fucking, Jim had wanted this; ever since they had joined minds, he’d needed it.

That didn’t mean he was ready for it.

He dragged Spock along with him toward the messy, the swift, the desperate, with just enough tension from Spock’s restraint pulling him back from the edge to drive him insane. His snarl was muffled by Spock’s flesh, turning into a whine, followed by a breathless wheeze. Jim was so inside his own head, crowded as it was with Spock, that he forgot the basics. He might have been babbling, too, but Spock wasn’t listening and Jim couldn’t hear it.

‘Don’t,’ Spock said, touching Jim’s bare skin in the strip between his dick and his navel, hand damp with Jim’s spit.

Jim blinked. ‘Huh?’

Spock moved Jim away from the door like he didn’t weigh a thing and leaned him down into the bed with a weight Jim would’ve begged for, would have buried himself under. When Jim breathed, or tried to remember how to breathe, his belly swelled against Spock’s stomach, while Spock rubbed Jim’s dick through his pants.

If he was too into it to give back, then Jim could at least rest on the knowledge that Spock could feel every pulse and throb of blood through the veins in his erection. That was sharing and caring, his need echoed back to him, one hell of a fucked-up feedback loop. Spock’s hand didn’t falter; Jim ground into it, always on the verge of coming, always held back by the same terrible, fantastic Vulcan restraint he’d been throwing himself against from the start.

Fuck it, Jim thought. And fuck that. And fuck Spock.

He was the one who dragged them over. Spock had Vulcan strength, but Jim had never needed to come so bad in his life, and if he was going, he was taking Spock with him.

Spock didn’t make a sound, but Jim was loud enough for both of them, letting out a short, sharp groan that lingered in his throat before he committed it to the open air. Spock’s cloak was keeping the heat trapped between their bodies. Jim could barely breathe with him so close, but he couldn’t bring himself to push him off, either.

He was uncomfortable, but he wasn’t  _crazy._

In other circles, it would have been considered good manners—sharing an orgasm was just about the nicest thing you could do for someone. It was the gift that kept on giving. Literally, if it was good one.

But Vulcans were different. With Spock, pushing him over the edge of something so raw and powerful was kind of a dick move. From what Jim knew of Spock—the things he’d told Jim and the things he’d picked up through the strengthening of their mental bond—he would rather stay in control of himself than be put at the mercy of his body  _or_ Jim’s mind even for even a second.

Still, Jim couldn’t feel guilty with Spock shuddering against him. Everyone deserved to know what that felt like at least once in their miserable lives. He tried, mind grappling, to think about how Spock would have described it—nothing too vulgar, nothing dirty enough. _Mutual satisfaction_ , or something like that. And Jim would have countered that pretty turn of phrase with ‘coming at the same time, you mean,’ all the bite taken out of it with a just-fucked grin.

Vulcans had longevity over humans. It was up to Jim to make sure Spock enjoyed himself with all that extra time.

Spock’s voice echoed inside Jim’s mind. It wasn’t clear if he had meant it to be shared that way or if he’d been trying to say Jim’s name out loud.

Impressive, when he thought about it like that. Jim had practically made him forget how to talk.

‘Yeah.’ Jim exhaled, his muscles slack in a way they never quite reached on their own; even sleeping, he couldn’t quite work his way up to complete relaxation. ‘I like it when you say my name.’

Spock rolled his eyes. It was just a flicker of white in the dark, but he was close and Jim’s sight had taken more than enough time to adjust to the dark. He pulled away and stepped back, bringing Jim with him before allowing Jim to slide down Spock’s body and onto his feet. A rush of relatively cool air brushed Jim’s skin, the kind that was impossible to come by during the day and rare enough by night.

Jim leaned back against the bed to keep his legs from buckling under him and sending him straight to the floor of Spock’s bedchambers.

It was bad enough they had one Kirk out there who couldn’t stand on his own. Jim wasn’t about to be the second.

‘The Terran Empire will have need of you once the Alliance makes its next move,’ Spock said.

It was Jim’s fault for thinking about Sam when he shouldn’t have; he’d practically brought duty into the conversation when they should have been lingering in the moment, enjoying the afterglow. For all his intelligence, it was possible Spock didn’t know the meaning of the word.

As busy as things were going to get with the Alliance retaliating and Sam being unfit for service, with Spock’s home-world problems and his newer moves on the galactic scale, they were only assured the one night to get it right.

After that, there was no telling what would happen.

That was part of the fun, Jim told himself. But so was this.

‘C’mere,’ Jim said. He paused, then added, as much for the sake of a good show as it was honest for once, ‘ _Please_.’ It sounded like a curse on his tongue, but there was something sweet beneath the barb.

He held out his hand. Spock took it, first gripping Jim’s wrist, then pressing their palms together, Jim’s fingers coming up shorter against Spock’s. There was no need to rub in the size difference, so Jim did all the rubbing, tracing circles with the ball of his thumb against the opposite muscle of Spock’s hand. Spock blinked, long and slow. From him, it was practically languid.

They stood that way for longer than Jim could track, palms to palms, eye to eye. Then Jim nodded toward the bed and Spock nodded to Jim and they settled in—since, Jim pointed out, he _had_ done all the work gathering the pillows and blankets necessary to make it comfortable.

He slept in the curve of Spock’s arm, on top of Spock’s cloak, with a hand on Spock’s belly. It was close enough to the heart that the meaning of the touch was obvious.

Protecting what was theirs while reaching out for something new.

Jim didn’t have a single nightmare.

*


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of the beginning.

In the morning, Spock was aware of Jim’s early departure, but allowed Jim to leave without rising to follow. He required the space and Spock was not averse to the same. They showered separately, although Jim did give Spock brief glimpses into his: flashes of pink skin and the little bruises from Spock’s fingers on his hips. Spock knew how Jim undressed and how he dressed again after.

Then, Jim severed the link in his clumsy fashion, shrouding his actions for reasons best known to himself.

Clean and calm and alone, Spock attended an important meeting of state, where he was presented with the evidence of a rogue Alliance fleet beginning to gather on the borders of the Hostile Zone. Though this renegade faction of the Alliance had the initiative on their side, they did not have the numbers or the resources, and therefore could not pose a true threat to the Vulcan and Terran Empires, not with the support of their Federation.

There would doubtless be casualties.

What came next could not be predicted, but it could be met and challenged, fought and even manipulated.

Spock and Jim had managed to force a schism in the Alliance that would likely result in its downfall. They had not done so by accident.

There was little opportunity to meditate on these new developments, as a transmission from the Terran Empire awaited Spock after the meeting. Empress Winona Kirk was a formidable woman; her request to speak with her eldest son was at no point anything less than a demand. Spock had no reason to defy her on the matter, and so let George Samuel confer with his mother, though he did not for a moment suspect it would be a satisfactory encounter for either of them.

He did not see Jim again until late that night, long after the necessary preparations for combat had been made and the terms of a new, wartime treaty had been drawn between the royal houses of Vulcan and Earth.

Jim was on Spock’s balcony. It was a windy night.

There would be storms in the desert, to break approximately fifty-eight minutes before dawn. Spock could already see them beginning to stir against the dark skies, horizon clouded by red sands. Jim’s hair, long at the top, remained undisturbed by the weather. He leaned on the railing, turning when he heard Spock’s approach.

He was favoring his left side, to what end Spock could only imagine. There had been no reports of assassination attempts throughout the day; Spock had felt no shared pain. The Alliance was busy straightening out its own affairs, and they would not risk sending forces outside the realm of the Hostile Zone while their house was still in disarray.

But Jim was not above finding new and creative ways of injuring himself, even in the absence of having any real threat against which to throw himself.

‘So,’ Jim said. Spock had noted before his interest in beginning a conversation without offering anything of his own first. ‘Sam talked to Mom. You’d know her as Empress. Anyway, we’ll be shipping off home soon. Gotta get Sam into rehab first thing. And I’ll have— I don’t know. A parade or something.’

‘No doubt arrangements will have been made by the time of your arrival,’ Spock replied.

Jim groaned. He dipped his head back to expose his throat, body slackening where his weight rested against the stone. It would not take him long to explain the source of his frustration and so it did not trouble Spock to wait for that explanation, rather than inquiring after the details of his latest offense.

‘You’re supposed to say you’re gonna miss me,’ Jim informed him, slack posture supported by his elbows on the railing. ‘Scratch that, you’re supposed to ask me if I wanna stay. That kinda thing.’

Spock raised a brow. ‘It would be illogical of me to expect you to stay in a place that is not your home,’ he said. ‘Furthermore, your place is at the center of the Terran Empire, and that has always been Earth.’

It was Jim’s turn to express disbelief. When he showed his back to Spock in favor of looking out toward the desert, Spock took that as a sign to approach.

‘We’ve done great things together, though.’ Jim folded his hands into one another, thumb digging into a scar on his opposite knuckle. ‘You and me. Our own little alliance. Seems kinda stupid to give it up, that’s all I’m saying.’

Spock was silent for a moment. ‘Perhaps it falls upon me to remind you that we do not need to be together physically in order to share a connection.’

‘Now you’re just asking for me to tap you in every time I touch myself,’ Jim said.

That was not what Spock had requested. Yet, as he had no specific reason to refuse, he said nothing.

‘Guess you’re right about that,’ Jim continued, before spitting a mouthful of sand into the darkness below the balcony. ‘We don’t have to be together in order to be together. I’ve thought about it—how much we could change. On a more—’ Jim lifted one hand to the sky, tracing lines between the distant stars with his forefinger, ‘—cosmic scale. You ever think about the nightmare state we live in, Spock?’

‘I am aware of its parameters.’ Spock joined Jim at the edge of the railing, though he did not lean against it.

Jim glanced to him, then fixed his eyes on the reddening horizon. ‘Seems like it makes more sense to shake things up a little. I could do it on my own, of course, but like I said… We’ve done great things together.’

‘“Our own little alliance”,’ Spock quoted.

Jim chuckled. ‘Dynamic duo. You be the bishop, I’ll be the knight. We could make great music separately _and_ together.’

‘Your final reference is lost on me,’ Spock said.

‘Trust me,’ Jim replied. ‘It was a compliment.’

 _Trust me_ , Jim had said, and it was more than a turn of phrase, a meaningless colloquialism. Spock trusted him. He put his hand against the back of Jim’s neck, which was warm and freckled and already showing signs of a fresh burn. He could have choked Jim or broken that neck, but neither of them thought of either possibility beyond the fact that it would not happen.

Spock was inclined to trust Jim. He had every reason to, which meant the choice was only logical. After the Alliance collapsed, it would leave a void—and that void would have to be filled.

Jim’s skin shivered beneath Spock’s palm at the promise.

‘Wanted to show you something,’ he added, ducking away from Spock’s touch a half-second later. It was uncharacteristically prim, but—as with most of Jim’s actions—it was a necessary surrender made for a future triumph. He tugged the waistband of his leather pants down and the hem of his vest up to reveal a raw patch of skin, fresh ink staining it, and the reason for favoring that side earlier. It was a red heart and a green sword piercing the center, reminiscent of the insignia favored by the Terran Empire and its fleet, but Jim had, as was his nature, personalized it. ‘To remember you by,’ Jim explained. ‘So you’ll always be under my clothes and in my skin.’

‘Do you intend that I should mark myself in a matching fashion?’ Spock asked.

Jim shrugged with one shoulder, daring Spock to touch the spot with his sensitive fingers. Spock did so for the knowledge, not for the challenge, and for the shape of Jim’s hip beneath his hand. ‘How about this: next time I see you, I’ll mount a thorough, hands-on search. It’ll happen whether you mark yourself or not—although if I find what I’m looking for, you’ll get a reward. I’ll be _very_ determined.’

‘I am aware of your determination,’ Spock said.

Jim covered Spock’s fingers with his own. Spock covered Jim’s mouth with his.

And the storm broke over the desert.

**END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU for reading this and commenting and leaving kudos and everything. I am addicted to the pairing and to the wonderfulness of its fans. I will have a new Spirk fic coming up in the next few days, depending on my beta--mimblebee on tumblr, who deserves a thousand kudos for her awesomeness--but until then, thank you for sticking around, and until we meet again!


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